


The Propinquity Effect

by SwiftEmera



Series: Olivarry Week 2015 [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Bad Parenting (Moira Queen), Barry is 16, Bullying, High School AU, Homophobia, M/M, Oliver is 17, Sexual Content, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-04 13:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4139115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwiftEmera/pseuds/SwiftEmera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver Queen pretty much ignored his bisexuality, until he clapped eyes on Barry Allen.</p><p>Unfortunately, Barry is a social pariah, and Oliver's mother is currently running for governor, so Oliver is pretty much trapped in the bisexual closet, unable to come out and associate himself with Barry for the fear of tarnishing his mother's campaign. However, when their teacher pairs the boys up to work on a Psychology project based around the subject of sexual attraction, Oliver's willpower to keep his distance is strongly tested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mere Exposure Effect

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, this chapter is pretty short, because it's pretty much an introduction. 
> 
> This work will contain a number of triggers - read the tags before you decide to proceed.
> 
> Also, I checked Underage to be on the safe side, however I feel the need to point out that in this story, Barry is 16 years old and Oliver is 17. I'm British, so while the age of consent is over 18 in some places, ours is 16+. However, while it doesn't count as underage in my country, I understand that it is different in other places, so I decided to tag accordingly. 
> 
> (To be honest, I'm not planning on going into too much detail with the sexytimes - if you're looking for smut, feel free to browse my collection because I have written a few and will probably continue to do so, but due to the ages of Oliver and Barry here, I'd feel a little weird going into my usual amount of detail).
> 
> And just as a side note, I picked Psychology as the topic because I study Psychology and Sociology in University, and Psychology is the most sciencey of the two (or scientific, if you want to use actual real people words) - so since I have a lot of love for sciencedork!Barry, it was pretty much a no brainer. 
> 
> (Consequently, the title of the story and chapter titles will be related to attraction theories etc. For example, the Propinquity Effect is the theory in which we form friendships/partnerships based on frequent exposure - ie, the more we see someone, the more likely we are to become their friends or lovers. The Mere Exposure Effect, the first chapter title, is similar to this - the frequency in which we are exposed to someone/something impacts the way we feel about it - so, the more we see a person or object, the more we come to like it. I'll explain the chapter titles as we go along. You guys feel free to ignore my brief Psychology lessons though - they're not needed for the story, I just like to babble.)
> 
> Last but not least, I hope you guys enjoy. I'd love to hear your thoughts, particularly on this first chapter, so that I know it's something that people will be interested in, because I've got the entire story planned out and it's looking to be quite a long multi-chapter.
> 
> Edit: Just adding this, because I feel that it's important. I started this fic when Snart had only been in like, one episode (pretty sure it was published a while after that point, but yeah), so his character is more brutal than he is on the show. I actually _love_ Snart, to be honest, buuuut I had to take artistic liberties with his characterisation in this fic, so just be warned for that.
> 
> EDIT 3/12/17: So I'm still alive! And I'm in the process of editing the earlier chapters of this fic. I've been sort of stuck on re-reading because I need to re-immerse myself in this world to continue with it, and it's been.... problematic, because I've developed as a writer and reading old work just makes me cringe, lmao. SO at this point, the only way for me to move on is to edit and make it better. But yes - so don't worry, I'm working on getting this fic back to life ASAP. I know a lot of you are eager for it to continue. Thanks so much for your support.

“Hey, Allen, did your dad kill your mom because she gave birth to a cocksucker?”

Oliver sighed, glancing over at the source of the disturbance – Leonard Snart and his cronies. He knew that it had been going on since their first year in Starling High, but it seemed to have gotten worse since they'd returned from summer break.

It probably had something to do with the fact that Iris and Eddie had left for college.

Iris and Eddie hung around with the popular crowds, and they seemed to serve as some sort of a buffer for Barry, who had been adopted by Iris' father after the tragic mysterious death of his mother when he was eleven years old.

And, okay, Oliver wasn't a stalker – everyone knew. It was public knowledge. For a while, it had been all Starling City's residents talked about. Extremely high profile.

He just also happened to pay attention to the other boy.

A _lot_ of attention.

They were in the middle of Psych, and their teacher had decided that he would go on a wander – something that Wells was prone to do often, with a tendency to make a joke about stretching his legs before wheeling himself out the door. It had been pretty damn hilarious the first time, but it was starting to get really tiring, and what the hell was the guy doing, anyway?

Any normal high school student would obviously kill to have a teacher like Wells, to be fair. Laid back, lax, uncaring – hey, less work for them. But the thing was, every time Barry was left without any authority figures surrounding him, someone would usually take the opportunity to torment him.

And this... this always caused a twist in Oliver's gut, as he watched from the sidelines, trying to find a way to distract them without being too outright.

“Leave him alone, Snart.” Barry's friend butted in. Felicity... something. Oliver was pretty sure. She was a pretty blonde girl, long hair, glasses – conventionally attractive, with the added bonus of being super smart. All of the guys on the team were crushing on her, and Oliver really couldn't blame them. She was pretty damn radiant, and adorably awkward at times.

 _Except_...

Barry turned away from Snart, gripping his pencil tight, apparently trying not to provoke the other guy.

“It's a shame you like dick, Barry. I'm sure Felicity would at least throw you a pity fuck.” One of Snart's gang piped up. Oliver didn't recognise this one.

Barry winced, and Felicity scowled, turning to the other guy, ready to give him a dressing down. Oliver admired her courage, but he was sick of watching Felicity and Barry suffer the brunt of hostile teenage hormonal assholes, so he decided it was time to step in.

“Alright, that's it- come on, guys. Enough.” Oliver spoke, raising his voice, making his way over to the crowd.

Snart turned, sneered. “Who's side are you on here, Queen?”

As much as it killed him, Oliver couldn't just shoot the guy with an arrow like he wanted to. No, he had to be smart about this.

Plastering on the most charming smile he could muster given the circumstances, Oliver clapped Snart on the shoulder, mentally noting to scrub his hand vigorously when he got the chance. “Come on. Wells will be back any minute now. You don't want to get us all into trouble by causing a fuss, do you?”

Snart scowled, but complied anyway, returning to his seat. Felicity sent Oliver a grateful smile, and Barry squinted at him as though he were a complicated math puzzle that he was struggling to work out.

He couldn't really blame Barry for his confusion. It's not like Oliver made a habit of stepping in on his behalf. Mostly, he kept to himself.

The thing was, Oliver was pretty high up in the high school hierarchy, to his mother's delight, who had decided to pick the worst year ever to run for governor.

They were only three weeks into the school year, and the school bullies seemed to be intent on making Barry's life hell, to Oliver's chagrin. Any other time, Oliver was sure he'd have attempted to befriend the boy, social consequences be damned. But, no, he had to stay in the good graces of the influential people for the sake of his mother's campaign – which included Leonard Snart, who's father was the CEO of Cold Inc, a company dedicated to selling kitchen white goods (mostly fridge/freezers).

The thing was, it wasn't like he and Barry were friends or anything. No, Oliver just... admired the boy from afar.

Not that he could ever admit that out loud. To _anyone_.

It started in their first year in high school, really. Now, Oliver was still attracted to women – of that he had absolutely no doubt. But he was kind of maybe attracted to guys, too. Sure, there had been less guys that caught his interest than girls, but it was still enough to make him question his sexuality.

So he had long past established that he was bisexual. It was just a fact that he could live quietly knowing, and then proceed to ignore.

Until Barry.

Like everyone else, Oliver hadn't really noticed Barry at first. He was just the quiet, awkward nerd who sat in the front corner of the classroom, furiously scribbling while everyone else procrastinated their work.

It took Oliver some time to realise that he had been staring at the boy, to be honest. They shared two classes together – History and Psychology, and Oliver constantly found his gaze wandering towards Barry.

The guy was absolutely gorgeous. Tall, light brown hair, emerald green eyes, and the most charming smile Oliver had ever seen. High cheekbones, freckles – he had the genetic material that Oliver was sure would be envied by the gods.

It really was a shame that no one else seemed to appreciate him.

It wasn't just the way that Barry looked, though. Oliver noticed the strangest things once he'd really started paying attention.

Like, the way that Barry always chewed his bottom lip, eyebrows drawn, when he was struggling with an answer, and the satisfied smirk he wore after he'd worked it out, jotting it down.

The way he absently tapped his fingers on the wooden desk as the teacher droned on, especially when it was a subject that Barry already knew. Oliver could tell this because he seemed to finish his work well ahead of the class.

Best of all was the way that Barry doodled in the back of his notebook while waiting for everyone to catch up. Oliver managed to get a decent glimpse of his work one or two times – and he was pretty damn good. It looked like something that belonged in a graphic novel, really, and it was a shame that they didn't have Art together, because Oliver would have loved to watch him draw. That was when he looked most at peace – his far off, dreamy expression was Oliver's favourite thing - troubles of the world seeming to disappear just for that short period of time.

So, yeah. Oliver was pretty fucked.

When Wells eventually returned to the classroom, he announced that he would be putting everyone into pairs to work together on a project. From the corner of his eye, he saw Felicity clutch onto Barry's arm, and Barry's soft smile towards his friend, and his heart plummeted.

Were they together?

Sure, Barry always got teased about his sexuality, but he had never explicitly said that he was gay. Everyone just seemed to assume, or at least delighted in throwing accusations his way. So it was just Oliver's luck if the guy he'd had a pretty big crush on for the past two years turned out to be straight.

Not that it mattered, because it's not like he was going to do anything about it, anyway.

“No, no. Let me clarify, Miss Smoak. _I_ will be assigning the pairs,” Wells corrected, glancing over in Felicity and Barry's direction. “You don't get to choose. I'm afraid you'll have to mingle with people other than Mr Allen, there.”

Barry winced, worried eyes darting to Snart, who fixed him with a malicious grin and a small, sarcastic wave.

Fuck. Oliver hoped for Barry's sake that he was put with someone that wasn't part of Snart's gang – maybe Sara, who might tease him a little, but in a friendly way. Sara was pretty cool. Oliver had a thing with her the previous year, deeply attracted to the tough biker chick vibe she gave off, but it was never anything serious, and they'd broken it off on friendly terms. Fuck, Sara even had a girlfriend, so it's not like she would hurl homophobic slurs at Barry like everyone else did.

Or maybe Helena – who was a little bit crazy, Oliver could admit, but she was certainly the lesser of two evils.

Of course, he wasn't expecting Wells to pair Barry with Oliver, so when their names were called together, Oliver sucked in a breath, glancing over at Barry, who was staring back at him, apprehensive.

Shit.

 _Shit_.

 


	2. The Physical-Attractiveness Stereotype

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the response to the first chapter, guys. I'm pretty blown away with some of the reactions, and I hope you enjoy what I have planned for the rest of the story.
> 
> I apologise for lack of interaction between the boys so far. Don't worry, this will pick up from the next chapter. 
> 
> And for this chapter's brief psychology lesson:
> 
> The Physical-Attractiveness Stereotype is pretty much self-explanatory – it refers to how humans tend to measure one's personality based on their physical appearance. So, if someone is beautiful, the assumption is made that the person is in fact a good person on the inside, too. On the flip-side, if one is considered unattractive, it is often assumed that their personality is unattractive too.
> 
> (Of course, this only refers to first impressions, and it's simply a theory, so not everyone agrees with it)
> 
> As for the stuff that Barry mentions in the latter half of the chapter - that will be discussed in more detail as the story goes on – he has to explain it to Oliver somehow, right? ;)

Draw, aim, release, _thwack_.

It was a steady rhythm. Monotonous, even.

Moments like this allowed Oliver to truly process his thoughts, to clear his head, and to cool down after a particularly stressful day of school.

Days like today, for example.

After Wells had assigned their partners, he gave each pair of students a topic to cover.

Sexual attraction. Ugh. Why did it have to be _that_? It was as if Wells was mocking him. Then again, Oliver wouldn't put it past the bastard – he always seemed to know more than he let on, and he seemed like the type of guy that would enjoy playing on that. Oliver was so onto him.

 _Thwack_.

He hadn't even gotten the chance to talk to Barry, really, beyond passing the other boy his phone number, before he was scooped away by Snart, who proceeded to tease him about being paired with the school verbal punching bag.

 _Thwack_.

Shit.

“You're a little off the mark with that one, sweetheart.”

“I know, mom, I know.” Oliver grumbled, lowering his bow, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Now was not the time to think about Snart. He always ended up getting himself worked up – losing his concentration.

He glanced over to where his mom was standing, behind the fence that served as a barrier to their outdoor archery range, fully dressed to the nines as per usual, even though they only people who could see her were the staff. Her palms were crossed together in front of her, all poise and elegance.

He turned back, adjusting his stance, drawing his arrow from the quiver, setting up his aim again.

Deep breath. Inhale, exhale.

 _Thwack_.

“Oliver!”

Oliver grunted in frustration.

 _Thwack_ . _Thwack_ . _Thwack_.

Three arrows in quick succession. Normally, that would be a cakewalk for Oliver, but his hands were shaking, and he was far too tense to properly control his grip.

“Okay, okay. That's enough, Oliver.” Moira sighed, waving over to Walter, signalling him to open the gate so that she could enter.

Walter followed her through, collecting the bow and nearly empty quiver from Oliver.

“You're not ready,” Moira said, voice coated with disappointment.

Oliver lowered his head with a sigh. “I know, mom, I'm sorry.”

Cupping Oliver's jaw with one hand, Moira raised her son's head so that their eyes met. “It's okay, sweetheart. We'll work on it some more tomorrow, yes?”

“Yes, mom. Okay.”

Shit. The competition was in just over three weeks time. Oliver really couldn't afford to be making stupid mistakes right now. His family was counting on him. His mother, especially. She'd spent a lot of time highlighting how it would help the campaign – how good it would look for the son of prospective governor Moira Queen to win first place at the Starling Archery Gala competition.

She fixed a soft smile on her face, patting him lightly on the cheek. “Good boy. Now, I believe Mary will have picked Thea up from aftercare by now. Why don't you go and say hello?”

Oliver nodded silently, following his mother and Walter from the range, up through the path that led to the house.

 

*** 

 

“Ollieee!”

“Hey, squirt!” Oliver greeted the approaching thirteen-year-old, attempting to cover his foul mood with a strained grin. He scooped her up, throwing her over his shoulder, Thea giggling furiously as her backpack dropped to the floor in the process with a soft _thud_.

“Ollieee, put me down! Come on!”

“You want me to drop you?”

“Nononono, wai-” Thea squealed as Oliver loosened his grip, allowing his sister to slip a little, before grabbing back onto her legs.

Chuckling, he lowered the girl to the floor, who was doubled over with laughter.

“How was school?” Oliver asked, because he really didn't feel about talking about himself today, and he knew that Thea would get carried away. If he were to say _anything_ about his day, anything that would remotely let on that it had been anything less than perfect, Thea would know. The kid was incredibly perceptive.

“Great!” Thea piped up, scooping her back from the floor and dashing over to the sofa, taking a seat and patting it beside her so that Oliver would join her.

When he did, she proceeded to babble on about her day – something about a mean teacher, and playing hide and seek with her friends during lunch, and becoming friends with some kid named Roy.

It was pretty normal for Thea to make new friends – she was a social butterfly, after all – but the look she had when talking about the new boy? Holy _shit_. Her eyes were positively mooning.

“-and then the bell rang, and Mrs Garrett-”

“Waitwaitwait – stop. Who's Roy?”

Thea flushed at Oliver's knowing look. “Oh, he's just a friend. You know. New guy, average height, blond, blue eyes-”

Oliver chuckled. “Am I imagining it, or do I detect a budding crush?”

“No!” Thea squealed, fooling absolutely no one.

“Whatever you say, Speedy.” He smiled softly, ruffling her hair (ignoring Thea's whine of protest), making a mental note to keep an eye on this Roy situation. He'd be damned if he was going to let some guy date his sister, unless they were good enough – and Oliver had some pretty damn high standards, so this kid had better be nigh on perfect, as far as Oliver was concerned.

“How was school?” Thea asked in attempt to change the subject.

“It was school.” Oliver replied, trying to keep his expression neutral. Thea's forehead crinkled in concern, but before she could open her mouth, Oliver spoke again, gesturing to their games consoles on the shelf below their mounted television. “Come on, I bet you can't beat me at Mario Kart.”

Thea smirked, concern forgotten. “Okay, you're on. What are we betting?”

“Okay, if I win, you have to do my bidding for an entire week. If you win, I... will tidy your bedroom for you.”

“No, Ollie. You'll get Walter to tidy my bedroom for me. No, I think that if I win, you need to spend time with me whenever I say so, and I get to pick what we do.”

Oliver chortled, because he couldn't say that either side of the deal would be entirely bad for him. He pretty much spent most of his time with his sister, anyway. Well, when he wasn't hanging out with Digg and Tommy, that was.

Of course, Thea wasn't lying when she said she'd been practising. She even managed to beat him at Rainbow Road.

“Okay, so I think we should go gather my dolls from the attic, and have a tea party.”

“Thea, you're thirteen years old. You don't even play with dolls anymore.”

“True, but you did say I get to pick what we do, and for some reason, I just really feel like playing with my dolls right now.” Thea sent him a self-satisfied grin.

Oh, he forgot. His little sister was evil.

 

***

 

_**Barry [Sent 18:05]:**  
Hey, so I think that we need to pick the topics for our project. I was thinking we could maybe go over some of the classic studies, proximity, similarity, physical attractiveness and reciprocity? _

Barry closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, letting his back sink into the soft pillow that was propped up on the headboard behind him.

He knew that he had been given Oliver's number for this purpose – still, it didn't stop him from panicking the entire day, heart in his throat as he hit the “Send” button.

The thing was, Oliver was pretty popular, and while he'd never been a jerk to Barry like most of the other guys, they weren't exactly friends either.

Oliver came from money, and Barry came from a dramatic publicly broadcast murder case. A case that, as far as Barry was concerned, was still unsolved, because his father did _not_ kill his mother, no matter what the cops had tried to say. He was there at the time – there was another man in the living room. He didn't get a good look at him, though, because all he saw was his mother lying in a pool of her own blood, his father crying over her body, and a figure escaping out the window in a blur.

So, yeah. Barry was there. He knew what happened.

Unfortunately, no one would take the word of an 11-year-old child. Even now, when he'd tried to make several appeals on his father's behalf, no one would listen. So the person who tore his life apart – the man who took away his mother and left him without a father – still got to roam free, while Barry's father was set to rot in jail for the rest of his life.

Basically? The justice system was absolute bullshit.

Of course, the fact that everyone knew about his mother's case just made it all the more difficult in school. There was nothing that his tormentors loved more than to tease him with the tragic memory of his mother's violent death.

Oh, sure, he got beat up some too, but only if Barry was caught by surprise. He could run pretty damn fast – he wasn't the star player of the track team for nothing. (Which you would think would make him at least a little bit more liked by his peers, but no such luck.)

_**Oliver [Recieved 18:11]:**  
I'll be honest, I have no idea what any of that means. _

Wasn't that just great? Felicity got to be paired up with Sara Lance (who, despite her tough appearance, was actually pretty nice, and smart to boot), and Barry had been stuck with Oliver Queen – self-proclaimed party animal and womaniser, who probably expected Barry to do all the work for him.

The worst of it was, Barry probably would, too. The last thing he needed was another one of the school's so-called “alpha males” pissed off at him.

Silently cursing Wells for pairing him with Oliver, Barry's fingers flew across the touchscreen, typing furiously.

 _**Barry [Sent 18:14]:  
** _ _I've got it covered, don't worry._

Fuck, his school was full of absolute _assholes_. People that somehow decided, way back in his first year, that Barry was an easy target – shy and vulnerable, typical science nerd.

Of course, he'd tried to retaliate at first, to stand up for himself when someone threw a rolled up piece of paper with hurtful words written on it at his head across the corridor. He'd tried to fight back when one of his tormentors saw fit to pin him against the wall of the locker room after gym and send him away with a black eye, some bruises and sore ribs. He'd even tried to berate them for their use of his past and sexuality in order to cause him hurt. But, no. Barry since learned that it was better to run away – so he became fast.

Of course, it wasn't like he had ever confirmed his sexuality to anyone beyond his rag-tag group of friends – Felicity, Caitlin and Cisco. No, not even Iris, Eddie or Joe knew – and Iris was his _best friend_. People just fucking assumed.

And Barry had no reason to assume that Oliver Queen was any better than the rest of them – after all, he tended to associate himself with the people who had been making Barry's life hell ever since he entered the damn school.

No, as far as Barry was concerned, Oliver Queen was an asshole, no matter how attractive he was.

And, god, he really was. Which made this whole thing so much more difficult.

 _**Oliver [Sent 18:21]:  
** _ _We'll talk about it tomorrow. Arrange times to meet up and work on it. You'll just have to help me out with some of the terms. Psychology isn't my strongest subject._

Barry sighed, staring at the text with apprehension, because he really didn't trust that Oliver wouldn't make these study sessions hell for him, too.

 


	3. The Social Exchange Theory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys, as per usual, for your wonderful comments and kudos so far. I get more and more excited each time I see the count go up, or that someone is enjoying the story enough to leave a comment, so from the bottom of my heart, thank you. You're all wonderful.
> 
> Now, onto the lesson of the day. 
> 
> *clears throat, adopts professor-like posture* 
> 
>  
> 
> Psychology Lesson #3:
> 
> The Social Exchange Theory is a theory (obviously) relating to attraction, in which relationships are measured in terms of costs/rewards. So, for example, if Oliver were to be particularly mean to Barry (like Snart), the relationship would be costly towards Barry, and if Oliver were to, let's say, kiss Barry (because we all want that to happen, right? If you don't, you're reading the wrong story!) then this would be a reward. So rewards make a relationship beneficial, and costs cause irritation in a relationship. This theory implies that a relationship must be mutually beneficial in order to last, and if the cost rises, the relationship would decline. 
> 
> (Of course, no relationship is without rewards and costs entirely - however, we can assume that those closest to us would have more rewards than costs attached)
> 
> Okie dokey, on with the chapter!

The soft hum of the fan could be heard in the classroom, a light breeze flowing in Barry's direction and ruffling his hair slightly as he sat back on his seat, long legs sprawled lazily over his desk, tupperware dish on his lap and mouth wrapped around his cheese and tomato sandwich.

For all his flaws, Wells really did seem to take a liking to Barry, and had began allowing him to occupy the empty classrooms during lunchtime earlier on in the semester, telling him that he was old enough to be trusted now, and warning him not to break that trust.

It was lucky, really, considering that Barry wouldn't dare show his face in the cafeteria. In fact, before Wells offered the use of the classroom (under the assumption that he was using it to study, rather than to avoid the other students), Barry used to eat his lunch in the toilet stalls, so this was practically fine dining for him.

The one time he'd tried to eat in the cafeteria, of course, Snart had intercepted, and, well... let's just say that Barry ended up leaving the area with a black eye and ketchup and mustard smeared all over his face.

To say that Joe had been concerned was an understatement. The detective had questioned Barry for about two hours straight after he arrived home and made an (unsuccessful) attempt at sneaking past him so that he could at least change out of his condiment ridden shirt. Barry wasn't an idiot, though. He knew that telling Joe the truth would only make things worse – so he kept his silence.

Joe was always concerned about him though. It wasn't like he didn't appreciate him. After all, Joe was the closest thing he had to a father, now. Well, except his dad – but, yeah, it was kind of difficult to raise a child behind bars. Not that it was his dad's fault, of course. He still couldn't help the twinge of bitterness he felt towards the police force, though – his adoptive father included.

Still, Joe was supportive, and cared for him deeply, and Iris – Joe's daughter – was Barry's best friend on the planet. His rock. Sure, he had Felicity, Cisco and Caitlin – who were all amazing in their own ways – but Iris was his protector. She did everything she could to protect Barry from his bullies. Sure, they'd still come for him when she wasn't around, and he had received the occasional beating even back then, but it wasn't until Iris left for college that Barry could truly see how much her mere presence buffered the attacks against him.

This was going to be the longest year of his life. Barry could feel it already.

“There you are, I've been looking for you all day.”

Barry flinched at the voice, head jolting towards the door, only to see a sort of harassed looking Oliver Queen staring back at him, leaning against the frame, arms crossed.

 _Shit_.

“Well, you found me.” Barry replied, feigning nonchalance, despite his sweating palms.

 _Fuck_. If Oliver told anyone about his lunchtime hiding place, Barry was pretty much fucked.

“Yeah, I-” Oliver huffed, faintly amused smirk on his lips, “I see that. Can I come in?”

“Uh,” Barry glanced beyond the door, looking for anyone else that might be accompanying Oliver. It had to be some sort of trick, right?

“I don't bite, Barry. I'm not going to harm you. I just want to talk about our project.”

Barry very much doubted that. Still, it wasn't like he had much choice in the matter, so he nodded his assent. All he could do was hold onto the hope that maybe he could somehow convince Oliver not to tell anyone where he went during lunch. Maybe offer to do his homework or something. Fuck, anything, really.

As the chair in front of him scraped across the linoleum, Oliver moving it to the front of Barry's desk, Barry bit down on his lip nervously. There was silence for a few seconds, until Oliver moved to pull his bag up to the desk, causing Barry to jump a little, gripping onto the wooden surface.

At that, Oliver's eyes softened. “You really don't trust me, do you?”

“I-” Crap. What was the right answer here? If he lied, Barry reasoned, he would probably get a beating. If he told the truth? Same thing.

Still, something about the way that Oliver was looking at him made him feel a little open and honest, so he went for truth. “I don't- I don't know you,” he managed, loathing the quiver in his voice.

“Okay,” Oliver said thoughtfully. “How about we both get to know one another a little better, then?”

Barry raised an eyebrow, watching Oliver carefully. Was he really going to--?

“Fuck, no. Not like that! I- not that I have anything against--” Oliver groaned, covering his face. “I just meant that we should maybe break the ice a little. Like, okay. Hi. My name is Oliver Queen.”

Despite himself, Barry snorted. “I already knew that.”

“Okay, fair point. How about this? You ask a question, and I ask a question.”

“About--”

“Anything you want.”

“Okay. I'll start. What do you you want with me?” Barry sighed, deciding it was best getting straight to the point. He really didn't want to play whatever game the other boy was trying to reel him into.

Oliver blinked. “I feel like you may be misunderstanding the rules a little.”

God, he was infuriating.

“You told me to ask. I asked.” Barry grit out, teeth clenched.

If Oliver was here to beat him up, Barry wished he would just get it over with already. He'd have taken physical pain over mind games any day.

Mind games were the worst, as far as Barry was concerned. After all, Snart had tried that before. Tricked Barry into making a truce with him. He had been anxious at first, of course, constantly watching his back for signs of trickery, but he really did seem to have turned over a new leaf. Of course, just as Barry had been starting to believe that the guy could actually maybe be a decent person for a change, Snart had proven him wrong by inviting Barry to hang out with him and his friends, which ended in Barry getting the living shit kicked out of him by Snart and four of his closest cronies.

What Snart got out of being such an evil asswipe, Barry had no idea. The whole experience certainly taught him a lesson on trust, though.

Oliver sighed, “Let me start. What are your hobbies?”

“My hobbies.” Barry repeated flatly.

“What do you _do_ outside of school?”

“I-- study?”

“No, genius,” Oliver replied with a snort. “I mean like... okay, do you watch television? Movies? Read? Work out? Fuck, dance? I don't know.”

It was Barry's turn to snort. “I'm not much of a dancer.” Understatement. He had two left feet. “I-- I do like to read.”

“Okay. Favourite book?”

“No,” Barry shook his head, palm in the air, “You said you ask, then I ask, right?”

Shit. He really had to be careful. He wondered briefly if he'd maybe stepped out of line, giving Oliver whatever excuse he was looking for to reach over the desk and pummel him. His heart was thudding in his chest rapidly, blood running cold.

_Fuckfuckfuck, just do it, get it over with._

Oliver just grinned at him, though. “Now you're catching on. Okay, shoot.”

“Uhm-- what's your favourite thing to do outside of school?” Barry asked unsteadily, eyes averted.

Oliver hummed thoughtfully. “Archery.”

Barry choked. “Archery?”

“Yup.”

Clearly Oliver wasn't offering anything else on the matter, though, so Barry prompted, “What got you into that?”

_Why was he even bothering with this charade?_

Oliver shrugged. “I just-- we have an archery range. I grew fond if it -- _what_?” He added at Barry's pointed look.

“You have an archery range.” Barry snorted. “That's ridiculous.”

Oliver chuckled. “Yeah. I suppose it is. What can I say? Rich parents and all that.”

“What do they do?” Barry asked, because apparently he had some sort of death wish, and now that he'd started asking questions he couldn't seem to stop.

“Well, my mother is CEO of Queen Industries.”

Barry blinked, because yeah, he knew that. Felicity had already informed him. Why did he even bother asking?

“My dad--” Oliver trailed off, falling silent for a second.

It was then that Barry remembered the headlines – a ship lost at sea, a family left without a father – pictures in the newspaper of a younger Oliver Queen holding a sobbing child in his arms, presumably his sister. “Oh, I-- I'm sorry. I didn't mean--”

“No, it's fine.” Oliver smiled at him sadly. “But I'm guessing you've already heard about my father, judging by your pitying look.

“It's not pity.” Barry replied, and it was true. “It's empathy. Kind of sucks to have the death of your parents plastered over every newspaper, though, doesn't it?”

“Yeah.” Oliver nodded his assent. “I forgot that you would know how that feels.”

Of course Oliver knew about his mother's case. _Everyone_ knew about his mother's case. Well, everyone knew about the official story, anyway. Barry's account? No one really cared to listen to that.

Barry looked up nervously, and Oliver cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm. “Hey, so-- look, I'm sorry that people are so shitty to you here. I wish I could--” He sighed. “I wish I could help you. I really do, Barry. But my mom-- it's-- well, it's complicated.”

Barry shrugged. “You barely know me. I wouldn't expect you to throw yourself under the bus for some nerdy kid that the other kids decided was going to be the school punching bag.”

“Still. I'm sorry. It's not even about me. I can't even explain.” Then, Oliver seemed to light up for a second. “But I could-- yeah. That could work actually--”

“What could work?” Barry asked anxiously.

“I mean, if you want-- we have a gym. I work out a lot. I could coach you, you know? Help you learn how to defend yourself a little?”

Barry gawked, bewildered.

“You don't have to. I just-- it was just a suggestion.” Oliver grumbled, averting his eyes.

Shit, now he felt a little bad. Which was ridiculous, right?

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Barry asked, because, let's face it, no one outside of his immediate group of friends ever actually bothered with Barry before.

“We're partners, right? I can't have my partner getting distracted from our project just because some assholes couldn't give him a break,” Oliver said, expression hardened.

There was definitely something more, though. Barry could see it just behind Oliver's facade. Something that maybe hinted that he might-- but, no. That was stupid. _Get a grip, Barry._

The corner of Barry's mouth twitched. “I'll think about it.”

Oliver nodded awkwardly, then, clapping his hands together with aplomb-- “Okay. Well. Lunch is nearly over, so I guess-- we can talk about our project later? Are you doing anything after school?”

“I usually walk home with Felicity. We live in the same neighbourhood.”

“Oh,” Oliver said, looking slightly put out for some reason. “Right. Felicity. Are you guys--”

Barry blinked. “I'm gay.”

Fuck. What the hell? He'd just outed himself to _Oliver fucking Queen_?

“Oh.” Oliver nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“What?”

“I tell you I'm gay, and you say 'okay'?”

“Barry, what part of 'I'm not going to hurt you' do you not get, exactly?” Oliver bit out. “Your sexual orientation means jack shit to me.”

“Oh.” Barry began to suspect that maybe... maybe he did have Oliver all wrong. “I just-- please don't tell anyone. I didn't even mean to say it. I don't even know why I--”

Maybe it was the fact that, for the first time in a long time, Oliver hadn't immediately looked at Barry and assumed that he was into men. Maybe it was the fact that the guy really _did_ seem to be trying to get Barry to feel at ease. Whatever it was, Barry internally cursed himself, because he had never actually _told_ anyone before. Oh, sure, Felicity, Cisco and Caitlin knew, but that was only because he'd kissed Felicity during a game of truth or dare, and they kind of... sussed it out.

“Why would I tell anyone? It's not my thing to _tell_. Can you just for _one second_ stop looking at me like I'm about take a dive across the desk and rip your head off?”

Barry averted his eyes to the floor. “I'm sorry.”

“I--” Oliver's voice softened. “No, I'm sorry. Just-- okay. How about this? My car is parked in the lot. If you want, I can drive Felicity home, and then we could go to your house and maybe make a start on the project?”

He thought about it for a second. On the one hand, now that he'd spoken to him a little, Oliver didn't seem like he was such a bad guy after all. On the other hand, he still had that lingering feeling that this was all just some sort of trick. What the hell, though, right? It wasn't like it could get much worse. He'd already outed himself anyway.

“Okay. Fine. But fair warning, my house-- it's fairly unimpressive. I don't live in a mansion, after all.”

“I don't live in a--” Oliver paused, thinking for a second. “Okay. I might live in a mansion. It's not as impressive as you might think.”

“Says the guy who lives in a mansion. With an archery range and a gym, and probably live-in staff.”

Oliver shifted uncomfortably.

“Holy shit. I was joking. You actually have live in staff?”

“I think I preferred you when you thought I was going to beat you up,” Oliver grumbled. “Meet me out front after school.”

Barry nodded, watching as Oliver rose to his feet, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Oh, and Barry?”

“Yeah?”

“Think about the offer I made. I might not be able to fight your bullies for you, but with a little training, you _could_ defend yourself.

It wasn't such a bad idea, Barry decided.

Plus, if nothing else, he'd get to see a shirtless Oliver Queen working out. Now that he was starting to believe that the guy wasn't quite the asshole that he'd initially thought, that idea didn't seem too terrible.

_Oh. Crap._

 


	4. The Empathy-Altruism Hypothesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psychology Lesson #4:
> 
> Interestingly enough (or at least I think so, ha!), this chapter's title is actually a contrast to the argument of the last chapter's title, Social Exchange Theory (which argues that two people in a relationship must be receiving equal benefits in order to maintain a healthy relationship – see the previous lesson for more details). If the Social Exchange Theory were to be held true, this would mean that there would be no such thing as true altruism (helping others without looking for or expecting anything in return). 
> 
> The Empathy-Altruism Hypothesis by Batson (1991) argues that empathy drives people to help out others without expecting reciprocation. In other words, if one person is in distress, another feels compelled to help the person out without any expectation of any social or material gain in return. 
> 
> Batson and his colleagues actually performed a series of experiments to test this hypothesis, in which students were asked to listen to recordings of personal experiences. In one of the recordings, a woman claiming to be a fellow student discussed her personal experience in a car accident in which she received particularly bad damage to both of her legs. The experimenters applied several variables to each group – for example, one group (which we will refer to as the high-cost group) was told that the woman in the recording would be rejoining their class when she finally returned to school, and the other group (the low-cost group) was told that she would not be returning to the class. Each group were given a letter compelling the students to share lecture notes and meet with the woman in order to help her out with the missed lessons and coursework. Results showed that both groups were as likely to help the woman out as the other – the low-cost group acting out of empathy, and the high-cost group possibly acting out of self-interest in order to avoid the guilt of seeing the woman in class after refusing to help her out. These results supported the Empathy-Altruism hypothesis in that the low-cost group showed willingness to help despite having nothing to gain from the situation. 
> 
> (These lessons are getting longer and longer, aren't they? Here's a chapter to make up for it!)

For Oliver, the rest of the day dragged in, uneventful and slow. Finally, though, the bell rang at the end of his Physics class, and Oliver was up like a shot, packing away his things and moving from the room without even so much as a goodbye to any of his classmates. (He would maybe have to apologise to Helena later, because he was pretty sure she had been about to say something to her as he brushed past her abruptly).

The gates were empty – much as he would have suspected, considering that he'd been a little overeager. He leaned against the fence, sending Barry a quick text to let him know that he was waiting.

Ten minutes into his wait, though, Oliver started to feel like something was a bit amiss. There was still no word from Barry, and the crowd of students was starting to dissipate, everyone making their respective ways home.

When it reached quarter past, Oliver tried to call his classmate, but the phone rang out.

 _Fuck it_.

Before he could even fathom what he was doing, Oliver began marching back into the school in attempt to find the other boy. Their school was huge, but Oliver was pretty sure that Barry had Drama class that afternoon, because distinctly remembered that he shared the class with Sara, who Oliver used to meet after Physics back when they were dating.

He hadn't even reached the Drama department, though, when he heard a loud bang coming from the restroom that halted him in his pace. Turning on his heel, he approached the open doorway quietly, listening.

“--can't even defend yourself properly, can you? God, Allen, fight back. You're pathetic.”

All the blood drained from Oliver's face, and his throat constricted.

“Just let me go, Snart. I have to--”

_Crack._

Suddenly, without really thinking about it, Oliver's legs were carrying him forward, only to be hit with a raw wave of anger as he witnessed the scene before him – Barry was on the floor, nose and lips bust open, hands held out in front of himself in an attempt to soften the blows and Snart was standing over him, arms crossed, a smug smile on his face.

Barry, to his credit, had his face set in defiance, and Oliver couldn't help but admire the sheer strength that the boy displayed, even when he was being pummeled into the ground.

He took a few seconds to gather himself, trying to reign in the sheer chill that the situation was giving him, before he made his presence known by clearing his throat.

Both heads shot towards him – Snart looking, well, somewhat unbothered, but Barry's face melted into an expression of relief, and that _did_ help calm him ever so slightly.

“Queen,” Snart greeted him with a friendly nod.

Fuck, he couldn't believe that he was going to have to be friendly to this dick.

Suddenly he found himself tempted to just say _screw it_ and beat the crap out of the guy himself. But, no. He had his family to worry about. His mother needed him to be civil, and Oliver wasn't going to ruin her shot because he couldn't keep his emotions in check.

“I saw that one of the Drama teachers was heading this way, thought you'd want to know.” Oliver replied.

If Snart noticed the iciness laced in Oliver's voice, he didn't say anything, too busy smirking maliciously at Barry. “Well, sorry to cut this short. It's been... fun. We'll need to do it again some time.”

Oliver clenched his fists, and Barry narrowed his eyes.

Giving Oliver a grateful pat on the back that chilled him to the bone, Snart strode from the toilet without another word. Oliver scowled, nostrils flaring, his fists clenched so tight that his fingernails were digging into his palms.

He had to get over himself pretty quickly, though, because Barry was still sprawled on the floor, bleeding and in desperate need of help. Without any further delay, he dashed forward, and Barry actually reached out for him so that Oliver could help him up. Any satisfaction that he may have felt by that, though, was immediately dampened by the pained groan Barry made as he shifted to his feet.

“Are you okay?” Oliver asked, earning him a slightly dazed and not-at-all adorable scowl from Barry. “Yeah. Okay. Stupid question. Come on, let's get you cleaned up.”

Propping Barry against one of the sinks, Oliver darted around the toilet, gathering towels and running them under the tap. He heard a yelp from the sink beside him, and he almost tripped over as he skidded to Barry's side immediately to stop him from collapsing.

“Shit. Do you need medical attention?” Oliver asked, checking the other boy over carefully.

Barry shook his head, though. “'m okay. Just a little light-headed. I just need to-- can you help me sit down?”

“On the floor?” Another glare. “Okay, okay.”

With that, he lowered Barry down gently, who leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed, face tense. Ignoring the prospect of catching some sort of disease from the tiles, Oliver took a seat beside him, legs crossed, regarding Barry carefully.

“I'm going to start cleaning your face now. It might sting, but let me know if it gets too much and I'll stop, okay?”

Barry sent him a weak nod in reply, eyes still shut tight, face contorted in pain. He hissed slightly at the contact of the wet paper towel on his face. Oliver winced as he brushed over a particularly bad cut, and the other boy let out a small whimper.

Fuck, all this time he'd wanted to reach out and touch Barry, and when it actually happens, it just had to be in shitty circumstances, didn't it?

“Barry, do you need me to stop?” Oliver asked, concerned. He knew that he had to get the cuts cleaned one way or another, but he could tell Barry was extremely uncomfortable.

“I-I'm okay,” Barry managed.

He worked as slowly as he possibly could, taking extra care along the particularly bad looking areas, swiping up the wetness around Barry's eyes without a word.

It was only after washing away the last drop of blood from Barry's face, that Oliver noticed that their lips were mere inches apart. He allowed his eyes to drop down to Barry's mouth for a second, taking in the softness, longing to close the distance so that-

“What are you looking at?”

Eyes snapping straight back up to Barry's, Oliver could see the crease in his forehead as he regarded Oliver with confusion.

“I just-- I was making sure I got everywhere,” Oliver spluttered awkwardly.

He could feel the puffs of Barry's breath on his face, the goosebumps running over his own arm, the static running through his bones. Despite the fact that he knew that he should have been taking a step back, he was captivated.

“Did you?”

“Hm?”

“Did you get everywhere?” Barry asked, sounding a little breathless.

Shit, what the fuck was he doing? _Move, Oliver._

“I think so.” Oliver replied, licking his lips, noticing Barry's eyes flickering down towards the motion, then back to his own. Then, he felt himself moving a little closer, and he could swear Barry was moving in, too, and he could feel the warmth of Barry's hand on his chest. He found himself briefly wondering if Barry could feel the rapid beating of his heart, and-

_What the fuck was that buzzing sound?_

Suddenly, the spell was broken, and Oliver jolted back. What the hell was he _doing_? He sent a panicked glance at Barry, who seemed to have also come out of the trance, staring back at Oliver with sheer bewilderment.

“Fuck- I- uhm. My phone.” Barry choked, eyes moving towards his backpack, which seemed to have been thrown carelessly under one of the sinks.

“Right.” Oliver managed, scrambling to his feet, immediately missing Barry's warmth.

The buzzing stopped as soon as Oliver managed to pass the backpack to Barry, but started almost immediately again. Watching as Barry rummaged through his bag, Oliver peered at his face a little closer. Bruises and scrapes lined his cheekbones, and he could tell already that a black eye was forming on his right side, but he didn't look as though he needed to go to the hospital, so at least there was a bright side of sorts.

He really fucking wanted to kill Snart, though. He could feel his hands shaking a little, the chill returning to his bones, because fucking seriously – Barry did not deserve this. In fact, Barry was the _last_ person in their shithole of a school to deserve this.

“Felicity?” Barry asked, phone held to his ear.

Oliver couldn't really hear the conversation properly through the pounding in his ears, but he did hear Barry apologising a few times, and he was pretty sure he heard Felicity curse loudly at some point through the reciever. Eventually, though, Barry said his goodbyes, ending the call and stuffing his cell back into his bag.

“Everything okay?” Oliver asked.

“What? Oh. Yeah. Felicity thinks I stood her up,” Barry sighed, making a shaky attempt to stand to his feet. Oliver darted forward to help him, catching the side of his arms as Barry stumbled a little.

“You're not going to tell her what happened?”

Barry shook his head. “She'll just worry, and try to get me to go to Lance again.”

Lance was an ex-detective, who was now principle of their school – and incidentally, the father of the Lance sisters – Sara and Laurel. While he knew that Lance often did his best to ensure the safety of his students, high school politics often couldn't be solved within the principal's office, meaning that the school bullies pretty much got away with so much crap it was unreal.

“Have you thought any further about my offer?” Oliver asked, draping Barry's arm around him so that the other boy could limp alongside him.

“I-” Barry swallowed, letting himself be led by Oliver. “I have.”

“And?”

“I think it would be a wise investment.” Barry agreed.

They continued on to the car park, and Oliver felt a twinge of guilt each time Barry whimpered as he stumbled in his tracks, but he held onto the other boy firmly, keeping his pace as slow as possible.

Once they reached Oliver's car (which didn't take long, considering that the car park was pretty much empty at that point, all the sane students having made their way home already, only a few cars remaining), Barry froze again.

“What, you still don't trust me?” Oliver asked, unable to help but feel a little hurt, because he really did think that Barry was coming around to him after the events of the day.

“No, it's not- I just- I don't want to go home.” Barry admitted shakily. “Joe – he worries. And he'll make me tell him how I ended up like this, and-” Barry groaned. “I can't do it to him. Not again.”

Oliver only had to think for a few seconds, before he came to a decision – one that he knew he would probably regret later on. “You could stay at my house for the night. I mean, if you want to.”

Barry blinked. “What?”

“I mean, I doubt that your injuries will be gone by tomorrow, so it probably won't stop him from suspecting anything, but if you want to delay the fallout, you're welcome to stay.”

It was a Friday, after all. It wasn't like they had school the next day, and maybe they would actually be able to make a start on their project like they had planned to, Oliver reasoned. It wasn't at all that he wanted to keep a close eye on Barry – to help him with his injuries, and maybe to earn his trust a little more. Nope. Not at all.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Barry asked weakly, eyes drooping.

Instead of answering, he propped Barry against his car, moving over to open the passenger door, before lowering Barry down gently, wincing slightly at the hiss Barry made as his leg twisted in a certain angle.

Once he was in the driver's seat, buckling himself in, he glanced over at Barry, who was staring back at him with wide-eyed wonder.

“ _What_?” Oliver snapped.

Barry flinched. “Nothing.”

 _Fuck_. “I didn't-” Oliver sighed, running his hands over his face. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap.”

“It's okay.” Barry said, not really doing much to relieve the guilt.

It wasn't Barry's fault he was so tense, after all. In fact, it was everyone but Barry's fault. It was the school, for being so shitty that they couldn't eliminate the bullying problem. It was his classmates, who either just ignored the constant abuse that Barry had been suffering through, or joined in. It was Snart and his friends, for being the main components of the abuse. But most of all – it was himself, because he was too much of a fucking coward to stand up to the bullies and help Barry out.

He really needed to hit the gym so that he could get rid of the pent up rage – it wouldn't do for Barry to suffer through one of Oliver's bad moods – not when he'd obviously suffered enough already.

The engine roared to life, and Oliver drove wordlessly with Barry slouched in the passenger seat, looking about ready to pass out.

 


	5. Survival of the Fittest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, sorry guys - I forgot to attach the Psychology of the chapter title last night when I uploaded. Here you go:
> 
> Psychology Lesson #5:
> 
> Survival of the Fittest is a classic study in Evolutionary theory by Charles Darwin, which you probably have already heard of. It refers to the process of natural selection, the process in which we select our potential mates based on attributes that suggest that they will provide strong and healthy offspring to their potential partners, meaning that we are attracted to healthy bodies because they suggest good fertility in a potential mate. Of course, this is a heteronormative ideal, considering that male-male and female-female pairings cannot naturally reproduce, so needless to say, Darwinian theory is often heavily disputed.
> 
> "Survival of the form that will leave the most copies of itself in successive generations."

Despite the fact that he had teased Oliver about it, Barry hadn't quite anticipated the scale of the Victorian-style stone mansion that lay before them beyond the large, black gates and well-kept grounds.

Figures Oliver's 'billionaire playboy' image lived up to expectation.

“Close your mouth, Barry. You'll catch flies if you carry on that way,” Oliver quipped, smirking over at him from the driver's seat after pulling up on the generously-sized paved driveway, stones crunching under the tires.

He hadn't even noticed how slack his jaw was, but his mouth snapped shut instantly. “In what world is this not a mansion?” He asked, eyebrows arched in Oliver's direction.

At that, Oliver rubbed the back of his neck, slightly sheepish. “I was trying to be humble?”

Barry snorted, leaning back on the headrest for a second, closing his eyes, trying to get his bearings – he still felt a little off kilter, if he were being totally honest with himself. Not that that wasn't to be expected considering the damage he'd taken. Briefly, he wondered how far Snart would have gone this time if Oliver hadn't intercepted. His hate for Barry seemed to have sky-rocketed this year, and he wondered if Iris being gone was the only factor at play for the extra abuse or if there was maybe something else going on. He couldn't help but be a little anxious at the thought of being at his mercy for another year.

“Are you okay?” The other male asked, watching Barry with a softened expression.

No, he really wasn't okay – he felt hazy, his bones were aching, and he had a killer headache – but that wasn't really anything that Oliver could help him with beyond providing painkillers, which Barry actively avoided at all costs, preferring to let his body run its course naturally instead.

“I'm fine,”

Oliver frowned at him, forehead crinkling, eyes roaming over his face. He wondered if Oliver had caught on to his lie, but if he had, he didn't say anything about it – just inspected him silently.

“Uhm. What are you doing?” Barry asked nervously. There was something in the way that Oliver looked at him, sometimes, that made him feel a little... well, not uncomfortable. Apprehensive, maybe. Curious? Definitely.

“Look at me.” Oliver demanded, fixing him with a grave expression.

Barry's eyes darted to Oliver's, which were decidedly stunning – all sky blue and full of light, with a little tint of something heavier. He swallowed thickly, his throat feeling a little dry all of a sudden.

He couldn't help but feel self-conscious, and a little vulnerable. Silence echoed in the air, and time seemed to stand still, until Oliver nodded, seemingly satisfied with his checks before unbuckling, making his way over to Barry's side of the car and gingerly helping him to his feet again, handling Barry as though he were a precious piece of antiquary that might shatter into pieces at the remotest touch.

He couldn't help it – he buckled halfway up the path, letting out a soft hiss as an intense pain erupted in his calf – he must have twisted it somehow in the blowout. Oliver reached out, though, and Barry felt strong arms wrap around his waist, allowing him to lean against Oliver's body to use it as a crutch.

Oliver squeezed him a little, and murmured “Don't worry, we'll get you some ice, c'mon."

Barry couldn't really explain his racing pulse, or the warmth that seemed to drape itself over his cheeks at that moment, but they seemed to increase considerably whenever the curve of Oliver's hip bumped against his own as they made their way up the path, crushing the gravel below their feet.

The inside of Oliver's house wasn't any less impressive than the outside – all wooden panels and rich colours, stained glass windows that sat at the top of a rather exquisite looking symmetrical staircase – not to mention all the valuables – paintings, sculptures, what have you, draping themselves on top of tables, lined up on the wall, strategically dotted around the area for viewing pleasure.

If Barry was honest, though, it felt more like a museum than a home – all aesthetics and no creature comforts that made a home a home. No sign of personal touches to be seen.

Of course, he was comparing Oliver's house to Joe's, who hung pictures of Barry and Iris everywhere that he could find space. He was particularly fond of the one that had been placed on one of the windowsills in the living room of himself and Iris – Barry had just turned twelve, and it had been his first birthday without his mother, so Joe had taken them to a nearby seaside town, allowing Barry and Iris to let loose. His heart still warmed to think of it – he could still remember the feeling of the soft, lukewarm sand below his feet, the icy chill of the water as he dipped his toes in and how it seemed to gradually grow a little warmer after Iris had dragged him over her shoulder and ran them a little deeper, crashing Barry down into the water with a loud splash, cackling wildly.

Barry's lips dipped into a soft frown, considering what growing up in these cold hallways would have been like for Oliver. He was fortunate – he knew he was – to have been taken in by Joe. Joe was all warm smiles and unconditional love, and their home was filled with happiness and laughter despite the ever present longing that Barry felt for his own father, and he had found a best friend in Iris.

It wasn't like he never visited his own father – he did, but his father kept insisting that Barry go on with his life. Go out, enjoy himself, stop spending every ounce of his spare time “visiting an old man in prison”, yadda yadda yadda. So as much as it hurt him to do so, Barry had cut back on his visiting hours, simply so that his father felt a little better. Not that he was out doing all the things that his father had hoped he'd be doing, but he could pretend, at least. Anything to brighten his father's day a little. Hell knows he had it bad enough as it was, without Barry adding any additional grievances.

“Something wrong?” Oliver asked quietly, his voice cutting through the heavy silence.

Barry shook his head, forcing a small smile Oliver's way. He already felt exposed enough without projecting his thoughts onto the other boy – not to mention that Barry didn't really want to insult his home. That would be pretty rude.

“Okay, just-- hold on, okay?” He said, tugging Barry alongside him gently. He led him through the hallway to a room that lay on the right side of the house, which felt just as empty despite the wide array of decorative touches that it held, much like the entrance hall. The deep maroon chesterfield sofa that Oliver lowered him down onto was cold and hard, much like Barry had suspected. He squirmed a little, eyes firmly planted on the floor.

When Oliver disappeared through the doors for a few minutes, Barry let out the breath he'd been holding. Shit, this house gave him the creeps. Of course, the other boy was probably used to it, having been raised in it and all, but it just made Barry's chest ache a little for his own home. A few minutes later, he returned, bag of ice in hand, immediately passing it to Barry, who pressed it to his calf, a sharp gasp escaping his lips at the cool contact.

Oliver took the seat next to him, perching his forearms on his thighs and clasping his hands together. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Barry replied sharply, avoiding Oliver's gaze.

“It's just-” Oliver sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. “It's supposed to help. Or so I'm told.”

“I'm fine.” Crap, he really wasn't meaning to be so snippy. He was sore, and tired, and possibly a little concussed, and taking it out on Oliver certainly wasn't improving his mood. If anything, it was making it worse, because he was even irritating himself. Why Oliver didn't just leave him at the school was completely beyond him.

“You're not fine, Barry.” Oliver bit out, pointedly enunciating every syllable, just in case it wasn't clear enough for him. “ _Nothing_ about this is fine.”

At that, Barry snorted, folding his arms over his stomach protectively, his long fingers curving around his elbow. “It's not your problem, remember?”

The other boy opened his mouth – perhaps to protest – when the room door was thrown open with abandon, a young brown-haired teenage girl marching in, draped in a school uniform (prep school, by the looks of it), a grin stretched over her face, so wide that Barry could see the dimples on her rosy cheeks and the laughter lines at the sides of her eyes.

Oliver's serious demeanor seemed to shift entirely. He straightened his back and his head lifted a little higher, returning the girl's grin with one of his own – a little tighter, but real, nonetheless. “Hey, Speedy.”

The girl didn't reply, just strode over to the edge of the couch, on the side that Oliver was sitting, and perched there, one leg folded under her, and the other dangling over the side.

“What are you so happy about?”

“Nothing,” The girl shot back, a little too fast to be entirely truthful on her part – of course, the slight blush on her cheeks and the way she ducked her head sheepishly kind of gave her away anyway.

Oliver hummed, doubtful. “Let me guess – Roy asked you out?”

At that, the girl's eyes shot open. “No! Shut up!”

Snorting with amusement, Oliver turned to Barry; “This is my brat of a sister, Thea. She talks a tough game, but don't let her fool you – she's a sucker for hugs and cookies. Just don't challenge her to Mario Kart. Ever.”

The siblings shared a look – one that spoke volumes without really saying anything at all. Smiles tugged their lips from a private joke of sorts. One that Barry didn't really understand – not that he minded, of course.

Actually, it was kind of nice to see Oliver like this. It was clear, even within the first few minutes of meeting Thea, that Oliver doted on his little sister a lot, and that caused a rush of warmth in his chest that he promptly decided to ignore.

“Speedy, meet Barry.”

Suddenly, Barry became extremely concious of the way his face must have looked, if the furrow in Thea's brow and thin line that her lips were pressed into as her eyes skimmed his face were anything to go by. She didn't say anything, though, just shot him a weak smile and a small wave.

“We're doing a project in school together, so he's going to camp out for the night. Do you know when mom will be home?” Oliver continued, either not noticing the slight awkwardness of the interaction, or expertly guiding the conversation elsewhere.

Thea rolled her shoulders in a small, careless shrug. “You know mom. Not much with the sharing. She took off with Walter before I got home from school this afternoon – said to tell you to order dinner. So she either won't be back tonight, or she'll be back late.” There was something playing on Thea's face that Barry couldn't quite place. A ghost of disapproval - an unspoken expression of distrust for her mother, perhaps, or maybe for whoever this Walter guy was – he didn't know. If Oliver noticed it, though, he chose not to comment on it.

“Well, I guess we're ordering in for dinner. Are you okay with pizza, Barry?”

At that, a smile tugged the corners of his lips. “What, just one?”

Oliver chuckled, raising himself from the couch, rounding the coffee table, and exiting the room for a second before returning swiftly, armed with a black cordless device that Barry assumed was the house phone. His suspicions were confirmed when Oliver dialled the number, asking Barry and Thea for their orders and parroting them back to the person on the other end of the line – a young woman, if Barry's ears were picking up the static properly.

After placing the order, Oliver clapped his hands together. “Who's up for a movie marathon while we wait?”

Barry blinked. “I thought we were going to work on the project?”

Oliver's smile fell ever so slightly, but still remained on his face nonetheless. If Barry hadn't been watching him so closely, he wasn't so sure he'd have noticed it at all.

And why was he watching Oliver Queen so closely anyway? Was he that desperate for companionship that he latched on to the first person that showed him a little bit of kindness outside of his immediate group of friends?

_Get a grip, Barry._

In the end, they had compromised by agreeing to watch one movie, and Barry was both surprised in delighted when the other male yanked out _Indiana Jones: Raiders of the Lost Ark_ from his extensive catalogue of DVDs, and Barry had to suck in a breath when Oliver sat back on the couch beside him, their thighs and arms pressed together so that Thea had space to slide into the empty space.

When the doorbell rang, Barry felt a vague sense of disappointment when the other boy withdrew from him, the departure of his body heat leaving him feeling a little cold. It was only temporary though. The other boy returned to them, pizza boxes raised high in a triumphant gesture, earning him twin grins from Barry and Thea. They tore through the pizzas slice by slice, eyes fixed on the screen. It was quiet, but comfortable.

The movie ended, and Oliver took the empty pizza boxes, discarding them into the bin, before returning and stretching his arms over his head, a wide yawn falling from his mouth, eyes hooded. He looked like Barry felt, quite honesty – full, sleepy and food-drunk. When Oliver pulled _Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade_ down from the shelf then sprawled lazily next to Barry as he fumbled with the remote to put it on, Barry failed to mention the fact that they still had to do some work on their project, instead completely enraptured with the motions of the light from the screen dancing across Oliver's face, a lopsided smile playing on his lips.

 

***

 

He wasn't sure when he'd fallen asleep, but he awoke to a loud click, then a whirr, and the blurry sight of Thea standing in front of him, phone held aloft, sly smirk curving her lips. He jolted up, then his face paled when he realised the compromising position in which he'd found himself, because apparently Oliver had fallen asleep too, and Barry had been draped over his chest, hand splayed on the other male's stomach.

“Thea!” Oliver whined, voice hoarse with sleep, pinching the bridge of his nose, face scrunched in frustration.

“I'm sorry, did I interrupt snuggle time?” The girl shot back, pocketing her phone, sly smile lingering.

Barry ran his hands over his face, avoiding looking at either sibling. _Shit, what if Oliver thought that Barry had a crush on him?_ Which was ridiculous, of course – Barry wasn't foolish enough to crush on Oliver Queen, straight billionaire playboy. He'd have to be a moron, right?

When Oliver grunted, his hand grazing the outside of Barry's thigh as he pressed his hands into the couch in order to gain leverage to stand up, Barry barely suppressed a shudder at the tingling sensation, his face still heated. He tugged on the ends of his hair gently, eyes firmly planted on the extravagant looking Persian rug draped under the coffee table in front of him. His stomach fluttered, and Barry scrunched his eyes shut.

 _Yup, he was a moron._ Not that it mattered, because of course Oliver was probably going to ask him to leave now – make some sort of excuse so that he didn't have Barry lingering anymore. It wouldn't be the first time that someone had started avoiding him because of his sexuality, and he doubted it would be the last. Sure, he'd been cool about it at first, but if he thought that Barry was going to try to make a move on him at any moment's notice (which he absolutely was _not_ ), he would likely change his tune.

“I'm going to go work out.” Oliver grumbled, brushing past Thea abruptly, who let out a yelp. “Coming, Barry?”

Barry's head shot up to meet the eyes of the older male. “Huh?”

Oliver's eyes pierced back at his, and Barry noticed that he looked slightly flushed, a faint tinge of pink grazing over his ears. His teeth dug into the bottom of his lip, as though he was a little nervous about something – what, Barry had no idea, but at least he wasn't throwing him out the door.

“You don't have to, I just-- I haven't worked out yet today, and I--” Oliver trailed off, squinting slightly, which, okay, was actually quite adorable – even Barry could admit it. “I need to let off some steam,” He admitted quietly, a slight tremble in his voice.

Barry understood – it had been a stressful day, after all. On the other hand, it wasn't like Barry could do much in his condition. Still, he wasn't really up for staying behind with Thea. As nice as Oliver's sister was, he didn't really appreciate her knowing gaze, nor her gleeful expression as her eyes darted between the two boys as though she were watching a tennis match that had gotten interesting all of a sudden.

With Oliver's aid, he managed to limp all the way to the gym – the majority of the struggle being when they had tried to make their way down the stairs. It had been quite problematic, really – Oliver drawing him in close, fingers grazing his hip, flinching every time Barry let out so much as a hiss or a whimper each time he felt a sharp pain.

By the time they reached the dimly lit basement, Barry figured someone could probably fry an egg on his face from the heat, and desperately hoped that Oliver couldn't hear the desperate thud of his palpitating heart.

Unlike the rest of the house, the gym lacked aesthetics, and Barry had a feeling that Oliver spent a lot of time down here. It was dark, yes, but it wasn't unpleasant. Eyes skimming the generously-sized room, Barry gazed over the vast array of equipment, most of which he didn't really know the purpose of. The only thing he recognised, really, was the treadmill.

He was drawn to a large steel structure, which consisted of two vertical bars at either side with adjacent hooks lining it from the middle to the top, and across them sat a single steel bar, not fixed to the structure.

“What's that?” Barry asked, hands still gripping onto Oliver's sleeve.

Oliver smirked at it fondly. “That, Barry, is a salmon ladder.”

He arched an eyebrow at it, examining it curiously, trying to figure out how one would go about using the device. He'd never really seen anything like it before. Of course, Barry tended to avoid gyms at all costs, so it wasn't really saying much. He was more of a runner.

His question was answered after Oliver sat him down on a mat in the closest corner, allowing Barry to lean his back against the cold, hard mirror behind him. He could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck as Oliver peeled off his t-shirt, making his way over to the ladder. Damn, Barry knew that Oliver was in shape, but he hadn't really anticipated how well-defined he was, muscles in all the right places. It spoke levels about how often Oliver spent in this room. Barry had the feeling that he maybe came down here to escape from the world for a while, which brought a pooling heat to Barry's stomach when he considered that he'd chosen to share it with him, even if it was just for this one time.

Fingers wrapped around the steel bar that lay across the higher hooks, and Oliver's lips pressed together tight, face hardened. Then, suddenly, there was a _clang_ as the bar came down hard on the hook above, raising Oliver from the ground. Jaw slack, Barry watched the older male in fascination – muscles tightening as he slung into each hook with ease. He was mesmerised by the ripple of his skin as Oliver hoisted himself up, using only his arms. He made it look so easy.

Face in deep concentration, Barry was a mere blip to Oliver now, so he doubted that the older male had noticed when he attempted to swallow the lump in his throat, nor when his tongue dipped from his mouth to dart across his bottom lip when his mouth dried up all of a sudden. A flush of heat worked it's way from low in his stomach, right down to his groin, and Barry just couldn't deny his attraction to the billionaire any longer. Instead, he just found himself wishing that the ground would open and swallow him whole.

Yeah, this wasn't good. Not good at all.

 


	6. The Forbidden Fruit Hypothesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psychology Lesson #6:
> 
> In 2011, DeWall and his colleagues carried out some research into what they deemed as “the forbidden fruit hypothesis”. This refers to situations when an individual's desire for a specific person is significantly increased due to the fact that they cannot have it. It mainly refers to situations when one is already in a relationship, and therefore cannot have the other person due to the fact that it would be considered cheating, however it can also apply to situations where one is simply told that they cannot have the person for one reason or another. So if either Oliver or Barry is told that they cannot have the other, this may increase their already ridiculous-sized attraction for one another. To read more about this, click [here](http://www.myfoxatlanta.com/story/17922964/study-looks-at-forbidden-fruit-hypothesis) (not the best source, but there is no scientific jargon used, so it's probably the easiest way to understand it, and judging by the actual [report](http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/21244177), it is accurate - note: report may only be accessible to students of certain universities).
> 
> Also, a couple of non lesson-related notes about this chapter. 
> 
> 1) Looks like we're talking about evolutionary theory again – which I talked about in the previous chapter. I tried to make Barry's info about it a little different, and didn't go into too much detail, so I hope that it doesn't seem like I'm glazing over it.  
> 2) Moira's age – I made her mid-forties in this fic, because Barry and Oliver are younger, so it would make sense that Moira is too, right? That was my reasoning, at least.

_It was dark – too dark. Barry could barely see three inches in front of himself._

_He was in his childhood home. He couldn't explain how he knew – he just did. Maybe it was something about the feel of the place – about the aroma of freshly baked apple pie that only ever seemed to resonate from his mother's kitchen on a Saturday morning, perhaps, or the all-too-familiar creak of the wooden floorboards beneath his feet._

_Except, that didn't make sense._

_Did it?_

_Barry bit down on his lower lip, a shiver running up his spine. He wanted to move – to walk forward into the darkness, but his muscles were cramped, and his blood ran cold. He knew that if he could see his face it would be pale as snow._

_This wasn't right. This wasn't right at all._

_A shrill cry sounded out from the distance, and Barry's stomach churned, because now he knew – he knew that if he could will himself to move, he would find himself standing in the living room, witness his mother surrounded by a pool of blood, his father crying over her dead body, and a lone figure in the shadows, disappearing through the small, open window._

“ _No, not again,” Barry whispered brokenly, tears prickling his eyes. He tried to listen out for more movement, but all he could hear was the thud, thud, thud of his violently pounding heart. Then, more voices._

“ _No no no, Nora, please! Stay with me!” His father was crying out in anguish._

“ _Mom,” Barry whimpered, reaching out, but hands landing only on thin air. “Mom, no! Please--”_

_He struggled with himself, trying his hardest to carry his feet across the floorboards, but to no avail. He was frozen in the spot, his limbs useless. This was it – his mother was going to die, and it was all his fault. His father was going to prison, and it was all Barry's fault. This man – the man in yellow – would make it away once more, be allowed to be free after breaking Barry's family so violently._

“ _Barry! Barry, help me! Please!”_

_He couldn't – he couldn't move. Why couldn't she understand?_

“ _Mom!”_

 

_***_

 

Barry jolted awake, the screech of the mattress echoing in the dark room, heart still hammering heavily in his chest. He was breathing in short pants, and his hand was held aloft, as though he'd been swiping into the air.

He let out a small whimper, which seemed to bounce off the walls of the guest room.

After Oliver's workout session at the gym, it had been far too late to make an attempt at working on the project, so they had resolved to work on it the following day, and then Oliver showed him up to one of the spare rooms - the one, Oliver had said, right across from his own.

The room was much bigger than his own back at home, and much like the rest of the Queen mansion, featured a large array of impressive décor – satin drapes covered large bay windows, an expensive-looking rug perched in front of an exquisite log fireplace, and he was pretty sure the sheets that he was currently wrapped in were Egyptian cotton. The entire room was probably worth more than Barry's entire home.

Drawing his legs to his chest, Barry wrapped his arms around them, resting his forehead on his knees.

 _Breathe through it_. That was always his mantra for moments like this. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself.

It happened often – he would find himself trapped in the nightmare, forced to bear witness to the murder of his mother all over again in one way or another. It seemed to differ a little at times – like tonight, he hadn't actually _seen_ anything, merely _knew_. Which still didn't do anything for the creeping sense of dread that made his way up his spine.

With shaky hands, Barry grasped onto his phone from the cabinet beside him.

Usually he would get up, make his way into Joe's kitchen, pour himself a glass of water and maybe read a book or something until he managed to calm his nerves, but the unfamiliar room and the sheer creepiness of the large house had him on edge – more so than he would usually be after one of his nightmares, at least. He couldn't bring himself to move – not on his own.

Oliver picked up after two rings.

“Barry?”

“Oliver,” Barry croaked unsteadily, swiping furiously at his eyes.

This seemed to be all the other boy needed to hear. There was a pause as Oliver seemed to consider himself for a few seconds, and then, “Hold on. I'm coming in.”

He waited, then. It couldn't have been more than five minutes, but to Barry, it felt like an eternity. He couldn't will his body to stop quivering, nor will his eyes to dry, nor slow his heart in his chest. Needless to say, relief flooded through him as the double doors opened to reveal a rather distressed looking Oliver.

“I'm sorry,” Barry whispered shakily, squeezing his eyes tight. “I'm so sorry.”

“Hey, Barry, hey,” Oliver soothed, rushing over to his side, the mattress dipping as he sat next to him, smoothing soft circles over his back. He couldn't help the way that he melted into Oliver's touch, his shoulders loosening as he let out a slow, slightly stuttered breath.

Nothing was said for a few minutes. Oliver seemed to understand that Barry needed time to work through this – to gather himself, and it made him wonder if the other boy had maybe suffered the same kind of thing himself. Not that Oliver had witness the death of his father, of course, but surely even just the loss would be enough to inflict these kinds of night terrors on someone. Barry was certain that he'd have them whether or not he'd seen his mother's body.

Barry broke the silence first.

“I'm sorry for waking you,” He said, voice a little hoarse.

Oliver shook his head, still running his hands gently on his back, which made Barry's stomach flutter a little. “Forget about it. Are you okay?”

He considered lying – telling the other boy that he was fine, that he could go back to sleep now, but...

“I--” Barry cleared his throat, staring intently at his own hands, which were currently wringing the bedsheets around them. “I can't-- stop seeing my mom,” He admitted.

Oliver's tense expression melted. Without a word, he drew Barry into his arms, and Barry was too wrapped up in everything to even remember to feel shocked. Instead, he just melted into his touch, his head resting on his chest. He didn't want to think about anything else, so instead, he just concentrated on the thrumming of Oliver's heart and his scent - a vague tinge of pepper mixed with soap, and inhaling and exhaling slowly, he allowed the rhythm to carry him away.

He felt a brief pressure on his forehead before he drifted off, and it felt familiar to how how mother would kiss him goodnight, but he was too drained to think any further into it.

 

***

 

Barry felt a lot more rested the second time he woke up, and he could feel a heavy weight pressed against his back – and a smaller, lighter weight around his waist. The hell?

He blinked, shifting, and froze as a soft groan sounded out from behind him.

 _Oliver_.

The billionaire jerked, scrambling to sit up, the heat leaving Barry in an instant. One glance at Oliver, Barry could tell he was a little embarrassed, considering how flushed his skin was, and the fact that he wouldn't look directly at Barry.

“You know, that's the second time we've woke up spooning,” Barry told him wryly, in a pathetic attempt to break the tension. “Maybe next time you should buy me dinner first.”

To his surprise, Oliver huffed a small breath of laughter, bringing his eyes back to Barry's. “I already bought you pizza. What more do you need?”

Barry hummed. “Not enough. I want candles, wine, music – the works.”

Oliver's expression seemed to darken a little at that, and Barry frowned. Had he said something wrong?

“We should really get some work done today,” Oliver said gruffly, clearly scrambling for a change of topic.

“Uh. Sure. Yeah.”

It was true – they hadn't really been able to get anything done over the last few days, after all. Sure, the project wasn't actually due until the end of the semester – they had months to go, but Barry liked to be prepared – and so, it seemed, did Oliver.

 

***

 

After borrowing yet another of Oliver's outfits to change into (nothing fancy – a red t-shirt, and a pair of black, cotton pants that sat loosely on his hips) they made their way downstairs, where breakfast was sitting waiting for them – stacks of pancakes, bacon and maple syrup.

“Servants,” Oliver had explained when he'd spotted Barry's perplexed expression, but Barry hadn't even _seen_ anyone leave the kitchen or approach the dining room, and he hadn't heard any footsteps. Yet another reason this house was way too creepy. Soundproofing.

And how did they even know that Oliver and Barry were awake and making their way downstairs if the house swallowed up that much noise?

This didn't seem to bother Oliver, though, so Barry didn't question it, just shovelled his breakfast into his mouth with a groan, to which Oliver's lips quirked into an amused smile – subtle, but noticeable to Barry, nonetheless.

“Do you and your pancakes want some privacy?”

“Shut up. These are delicious. How--?”

At that, Oliver snorted. “Come on, do you really think my mother would settle for anything less than the best cooks for her kitchen?”

Barry swallowed, savouring the taste. The pancakes were just the right amount of soft and sweet, the bacon crispy and smoky, and the maple syrup wasn't too sugary like most of the supermarket store-bought brands that Barry had tried before.

So maybe there were some upsides to being a billionaire. Still, he'd take stale pancakes over the loneliness that seemed to come with it any day.

 

***

 

A little while later, they found themselves sitting side-by-side in the library, surrounded by a sea of Psychology books, post-it notes, paper and pens, Oliver's laptop propped up in front of them.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected, honestly. It certainly wasn't a library that was bigger than their school library. Of course – their school library was pretty tiny, but it was what you'd expect from a smaller public school. This? This was extravagant. Shelves lined the walls from left to right, top to bottom, and there were even slide-along ladders to reach the top shelves.

A few seating areas were dotted around the room – some being desks, or simple tables and chairs, and there was even a reading corner filled with bean bags that looked comfy as hell.

They were currently perched on a nice, soft couch – the kind you sunk into at first contact, and a smaller table, not dissimilar to a coffee table, holding all the materials that they were using. Oliver was tapping away at the keyboard, subconsciously gnawing at the cap of the pen in his hand.

“So, you're going to have to explain these to me.”

Barry reached over, turning the laptop towards himself. “Where do you need me to start?”

“You said in the text that you wanted to cover--” He fiddled with his phone a little, squinting at the screen. “Proximity, similarity, physical attractiveness and reciprocity, right?”

Barry nodded. “Although, I think it's fair that we lead into it with the classic evolutionary theory.”

“Yeah, you're going to have to explain that to me, Einstein,” Oliver bit out sarcastically.

“First of all, Einstein practised physics, not psychology,” He could practically hear Oliver roll his eyes at that, “And second, you've heard of Charles Darwin, right?”

“Wasn't there something called the Darwin Awards?” Oliver asked, absently tapping his pen on the edge of the table. “Something to do with accidental suicide?”

Barry hummed. “Yeah, that's-- somewhat related. Basically, Charles Darwin was the founder of evolutionary theory. His book, _On the Origin of Species_ covered a concept called 'natural selection', or more commonly known as 'survival of the fittest'. The Darwin Awards kind of allude to that. It's a sort of joke that's been around since the mid-eighties, in which people are awarded after their death for taking themselves out of the gene pool.”

“I think I heard of natural selection... we seek mates that'll provide superior offspring, right?” Oliver asked hesitantly.

Barry blinked, quirking an eyebrow in Oliver's direction. “So you _do_ pay attention.”

At that, Oliver scowled. “Sorry, did you think I was stupid? I told you psychology wasn't my strong suit – not that I couldn't understand _anything_ at all.”

He felt himself flush, because, yeah, he deserved that. Hadn't he basically been thinking that about Oliver when they'd been texting about the project, after all? That Oliver wasn't interested in learning? That he'd let Barry do all the work? That he was just another dumb jock intent on making Barry's life hell?

It was kind of strange to think of, now, considering that he'd spent the night at Oliver's house. Oliver seemed incredibly kind-hearted and good-natured, if a little grumpy at times.

“I don't think you're stupid,” Barry told him truthfully. He ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I kind of-- I didn't exactly have a high opinion of you when we met, but--”

“But you have a high opinion of me now?” Oliver finished for him, watching him carefully.

“You're a good person, Oliver.” Barry finished quietly, eyes firmly on the table in front of them.

The other boy snorted, folding his arms. “Just wait. You'll change your mind the more time we spend together.”

He very much doubted it, but he didn't tell Oliver that. Instead, he brought the subject back to Charles Darwin.

They spent a little bit of time going over the basics of the theory, when Oliver decided to surprise him yet again.

“Don't you think it's all a little too heteronormative, though?” The other boy asked, frowning at the laptop. “I mean, evolutionary theory seems to imply that men are only attracted to women and vice versa. It leaves no space for any other sexuality.”

Barry nodded, a little taken aback. Don't get him wrong, if Oliver was homophobic, he was certain that he wouldn't have asked Barry to spend the night, nor spent the night in his bed because he'd had a bad nightmare and – _don't think about the spooning, don't think about the spooning. Oh god._

“Barry?”

Hoping that the other boy didn't notice the intense burning heat creeping up his face, he replied, somewhat shakily, “Y-yeah.”

Oliver watched him closely, still waiting for a more elaborative reply, most likely, but Barry's mind was working itself into overdrive trying to figure the billionaire out. He hadn't even batted an eyelash when Barry had told him he was gay, just accepted it with ease, which- he loved his friends, but even they had been a little apprehensive at first.

Not maliciously, of course, it just took a little bit of time for them to wrap their heads around. They spent the first few days after Barry had come out walking on eggshells, trying to avoid talking about anything that might ' _trigger_ ' him, until one day Felicity had made an accidental innuendo about Barry and one of their male classmates, then started stuttering through it red-faced, furiously apologising to Barry, and Barry just _snapped_. He told them that they were being ridiculous, and that they'd been treating him differently ever since they'd learned of his sexuality, which earned him apologies all around, and things returned back to normal pretty quickly after that.

So, yeah, Oliver's easy acceptance was strange, as was the way that he seemed to gravitate towards Barry now and again. Like now – their thighs were touching, they were basically staring one another down, and something was thrumming in the air – electricity, sparks, he wasn't sure, but it seemed to crackle with intensity between them in these moments. The fluttering in his stomach and the warmth in his chest was spreading with every second.

“What are you thinking?” Oliver asked.

Barry bit his bottom lip, eyes darting up to meet Oliver's. “I--”

“Oliver.”

The voice jolted them out of it. Oliver flinched, scrambling on the couch a little, putting some distance between himself and Barry, looking up at the blonde woman that stood before them. She looked like she was in her mid-forties. She was sharply-dressed, and her face was set in a firm scowl.

“Mom,” Oliver nodded in greeting, standing to meet her height. “How was your night?”

“Good, thank you. Who's your... friend?” Oliver's mother asked, watching Barry with apprehension and... something else that Barry couldn't quite place. It certainly wasn't a good look, to say the least.

Oliver didn't seem to notice the look, though. “This is Barry – we were paired for a project in school. Barry, this is my mom.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs Queen.” Barry told her, holding out his hand.

“Moira will do just fine, thank you,” She replied with a tight smile, taking his hand with a firm grip. Then, she turned to Oliver. “Sweetheart, have you practised for the tournament today?”

“No, not yet.” Oliver said, glancing at Barry. “We were kind of in the middle--”

“It's okay,” Barry cut in. “I-- I should really go. We can cover more in school.”

“Yes, I think that would be best. I'll wait at the range, Oliver. Come and meet me once you're done clearing up in here.”

Oliver nodded, and Barry bit down on his tongue.

“She seems... nice,” Barry said tightly, when the clacking of Moira's heels on the wooden floors faded into the distance.

“Yeah,” Oliver agreed, not noticing the hesitation in Barry's voice. “She's... she's protective. But she's doing her best, you know? I'm grateful for her.”

Best not to speak his mind, then. He didn't want to make Oliver feel awkward. No matter what, Moira was still his mother, and Barry... well, he wasn't even his friend.

Was he?

“Well,” Barry said, biting his bottom lip. “I guess I'll see you in school.”

“Yeah,” Oliver agreed, but his eyes pierced Barry's, and he didn't make any move to walk Barry to the door. Barry could tell that he had something else that he wanted to say, but he seemed reluctant.

Barry waited patiently as the other boy struggled with himself. He was breathing in short pants, and he wore a conflicted expression on his face. Then, though, the expression settled into one of determination. He wetted his lips, and then said, “Look, Barry, I--”

A loud creak interrupted – the squeal of the door jolting them from whatever conversation that they were about to have. If he didn't know any better, though, Oliver seemed to look somewhat... relieved?

“Thea,” Oliver greeted his sister.

Thea strode across the room, gripping onto some sort of strange silver case. It looked like a pencil case, but a little thicker. “Mom said that you're leaving, Barry. I-- I wanted to see if you needed help covering up those bruises.”

Barry frowned, because, yeah – he'd forgotten about those. His calf seemed to be healed, at least, but the bruises were still visible, judging by the way that Thea's eyes roamed over his face, a soft frown draped upon her lips. “You don't want anyone to see them, right? You seemed a bit nervous yesterday. I didn't want to ask, and I-- well, I don't need to know what happened, but I can cover them.”

He considered it for a second. If he went home like this, Barry knew that Joe would _freak_ , and most likely try to grill him on what happened. “Uhm. Yeah, I guess that would probably help.”

“Ollie, you better hurry up and go meet mom. You know how she gets if she's waiting about too long.”

Oliver sent a hesitant look towards Barry.

“It's okay,” Barry told him, “I'm good. I'll come say goodbye before I leave.”

“I-- yeah, okay,” Oliver replied, sending them a nod before taking his leave.

He watched the other boy go, ignoring the pang in his chest that was telling him to follow, before Thea distracted his attention.

“You _like_ him.”

He whirred around, regarding Thea with wide eyes.

“Oh, don't look so shocked. You're both so obvious.” The younger Queen rolled her eyes. “C'mere, let's get those bruises covered.”

“I- I- y-yeah, okay,” Barry stammered, stumbling over to her, ducking his head, trying to hide the white hot flush spreading across his cheeks.

He felt a little foolish letting someone cover him in make-up, but he wasn't one to worry too much about gender roles. It just... wasn't something he'd ever wanted for himself. Thea stroked the brush across his face tenderly, paying special attention to around his eye and the scrapes on his cheeks. Then, she bit her lip, taking a step back. “That should do it.”

When she handed him a small, black, compact mirror, he couldn't help but be impressed by the result. You couldn't even tell that he was wearing make-up, and the bruises were barely visible. He doubted that anyone would notice unless they were looking for him. He breathed out a sigh of relief, smiling over at the younger Queen. “Thea, you're a genius.”

She grinned back at him. “I know.”

“So, uh... I- that thing that you said--”

“About Oliver.”

Barry nodded, teeth tugging on his lower lip. “Am I that obvious?”

Thea rolled her eyes with a huff. “You both are.”

“Both?”

“Oh, come on,” Thea snorted, nose crinkling. “You haven't noticed?”

“But... Oliver isn't-- he's not--” Barry choked, threading his fingers through his hair. “He's straight.”

At that, Thea let out a loud laugh punch through her, her head jerking backwards from the impact. “Oh my god. Seriously? Barry, Oliver's _bi_.”

“He's not--”

 _Oh_.

It all fell into place. The looks, the brief touches, the calmness surrounding Barry's sexuality. Mentally slapping himself, he clenched his fists tight. Of _course_ Oliver was bi.

“I-- he hasn't said anything.”

“No, he wouldn't. He hasn't said anything to _anyone._ ” Thea said with a shrug. “He just doesn't hide it as well as he thinks he does. Especially around you. He _likes_ you, Barry.”

Barry tilted his head, brow furrowed. Was it true? Did Oliver like him? A small coil of hope unfurled in his chest, which he immediately tried to crush.

“Come on. He's probably nearly done with practice. He'll shoot me with an arrow if I don't bring you down to say goodbye.”

 

***

 

“No, not that one-- you missed _again_.” Moira groaned from beside him, running her palms over her face. “Ollie, sweetie, what is _wrong_ with you?”

 _Maybe it's the fact that you won't stop nagging him_ , Barry didn't say as he approached the spectator area of the range with Thea by his side.

Oliver pinched between his brows as his mother spoke. “I know. Sorry, mom.”

“I don't know what's gotten into you lately,” Moira said, arms crossed, shaking her head with a mild display of disappointment.

Upon hearing her daughter and Barry's footsteps, she turned to them, frown still playing on her lips.

“Barry's here to say bye to Oliver,” Thea told her mother flatly.

There were differences in the way that the Queen siblings interacted with their mother, it seemed. While Oliver treated her with respect and timid obedience, Thea seemed to be a little more wary of the woman. She crossed her arms, eyes narrowed towards the older woman, who's lips tightened upon her glare.

“Thank you, Thea,” Moira nodded. “You may leave. Oliver is nearly finished – Barry can wait with me for the time being.”

It wasn't really a request. Thea frowned, turning her gaze towards Barry. “You going to be okay here?”

“Yeah,” Barry lied, ducking his head. “I'll be fine. Thanks, Thea.”

Stiffly, she nodded, then with one final glance towards her mother, she turned to leave.

Barry couldn't help but wonder what the older woman wanted with him. Thea seemed perfectly happy to wait until her brother was finished, in order to keep Barry company, but clearly Moira had other plans.

“I don't know what you think you're doing with my son, Mr Allen, but please be reminded that Oliver is not your _friend_.” Moira told him coldly.

Barry startled, raising his eyes to the Queen matriarch. Her arms were crossed, her eyebrows lowered, and her jaw was clenched - any pretence of civility thrown out the window entirely. “I don't-- I don't understand,” He told her.

It was true. He didn't understand. What had he done wrong? Why was it that Moira Queen harboured such distaste for him? She'd only met him once, for a few minutes, yet the woman seemed dead set on keeping him away from Oliver.

“I see the way my son looks at you. I was told by one of the servants that you both spent the night in the same bedroom, is that correct?”

Fucking seriously?

“I-- well, no, I had a nightmare, and--”

“Did you. Or did you not. Spend the night in the same room as my son? The truth, please, Barry.”

Barry lowered his eyes, wringing his hands together. “Yes. Nothing happened, I- I-”

Moira sighed, pinching her eyebrows. “Look, you don't seem like a bad person, so I'm going to level with you, here. I can tell that you like my son-- he likes you, too, but... please understand, Barry, if you pursue this, you _will_ ruin his life.”

“We're not--”

“Please, Barry. Think about it. Oliver has a lot going for him right now – the archery tournament, his popularity, and hopefully, his political career once he leaves high school. You're going to put all of that in jeopardy. I know of my son's sexuality – I've known for _years_ , but it's never been a problem until now.” Moira reached inside her jacket pocket, pulling out a small envelope, handing it to Barry, who blinked at it, before placing it in his jacket pocket, sensing that he probably shouldn't open it right now. “If you really care about him, you'll do as I say. Finish the project, and stay away from him.”

Barry watched her, mouth agape, but Moira just turned back towards her son.

She seemed to really believe in what she'd said, too, and a small part of Barry couldn't help but admire her for that, despite the crushing disappointment and the boiling rage that he felt in the pit of his stomach. He turned to watch Oliver, too, hugging his body with his arms.

Oliver was moving seamlessly, now, without the focus of Moira's harsh words. He made it look pretty damn easy, and Barry was suddenly struck with how beautiful he was. His stance was relaxed, his lips pursed in concentration, and he could see a small bead of sweat run down his forehead. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he turned back to Moira. “Tell him I said goodbye.”

Moira inclined her head to indicate that she'd heard him, but nothing further was said, so Barry just glanced away, before walking towards the gate that led him into the gardens, eyes lowered to the ground.

His home was a twenty minute walk from Oliver's, but Barry knew that Joe was working dayshift that day, and that he wouldn't be available to come and pick him up, and he'd have felt guilty asking Oliver for a lift – especially considering the conversation that he'd just had with Oliver's mother.

Fumbling with his keys in the lock, the door clicked open, and the sight of his own living room eased a little of the tension in Barry's bones, his chest lightening a little. He was still wearing Oliver's clothes, and noted that he really should change into something of his own, but Oliver's scent still lingered on the t-shirt, and, well, it was certainly doing something to help the stinging in his eyes and the pain in his throat.

Barry trudged over to the sofa, slumping down and curling up, closing his eyes. He folded his jacket around himself a little tighter, breath catching in his throat, when he heard a crinkle coming from one of the pockets.

Then he remembered – the envelope.

Curiously, he drew the paper that Moira had handed to him at the archery range, unfolding it before him. There was no writing on the front – just a plain, white envelope. A small frown on his face, Barry opened it cautiously.

A small piece of paper fell out, fluttering to the floor before Barry had time to catch it. Apprehensively, he reached down to it, and upon viewing the contents, he paled, blood running cold.

A cheque for $100,000 signed by the Queen matriarch herself, with a small note attached by paperclip.

 

_Dear Mr Allen,_

_Think about what we spoke about. I know that you'll make the right decision for Oliver, but I understand that it will be difficult. Please accept this as a token of my gratitude for your compliance._

_Sincerely,_

_Moira Queen_

 


	7. Dismissive-Avoidant Attatchment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psychology Lesson #7:
> 
> Attachment Styles is a group of theories which discusses how couples attatch themselves to one another. According to the theory, adults have for styles of attachment, which are known as; secure, anxious–preoccupied, dismissive–avoidant, and fearful–avoidant. Secure attachment refers to when both members of a relationship are comfortable within the relationship. The other three levels refer to insecure attachment. Anxious-preoccupied is when one becomes too dependant on their relationship, and often display worry or anxiety over the state of their relationship. Fearful-avoidant is often displayed by people who have suffered abuse in their past, and struggle with trusting others, and tend to under-share their feelings with their partners due to their discomfort with emotional closeness.
> 
> The attachment style I've chosen for this chapter is the dismissive-avoidant style, which refers to when a person is highly independent, and keeps within an emotional distance from relationships altogether. This style comes with a defensive charactaristic (which is what applies to this chapter, really) in which people deal with rejection by distancing themselves from the person who rejected them. 
> 
> ((On an unrelated note - thank you for all your feedback and comments so far, you guys are incredibly sweet. As usual, I apologise for any mistakes that may be made in the chapter - I will ammend these accordingly if I spot any in future.))

 

It was their third study session of the week, and since leaving Oliver's house the previous weekend, Barry had been a little... off with him, to say the least. His texts were clipped, he made constant excuses as to why they had to study in the school library rather than one of their homes, and he was fairly certain that Barry was avoiding him, considering the fact that every time Oliver went to approach him after class, Barry seemed to suddenly realise that he had to be somewhere else and hightail it out of the area as fast as he could.

Oliver was seriously starting to worry that he'd done or said something wrong. He had been fairly certain that they'd been on the cusp of something. It was there in the tentative touches between them, the crackling tension whenever they were in a room together, the loaded looks.

He wasn't crazy. He _wasn't_.

“Okay, I'm going to ask. What he _hell_ is going on with you?”

Barry's head snapped up from the book that he was combing through to meet Oliver's eyes, shadows of guilt etched on his expression despite the fact that he was doing his best attempt to look completely neutral.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Barry replied after a loaded silence, eyes averted.

“Barry, come on.” Oliver shifted a little closer. When Barry flinched at the movement, his heart sank a little. “Talk to me. What did I do?”

Barry snorted, throwing down his book with a sharp _thud_. “Nothing is wrong, okay? I'm fine. We're _fine_.”

Oliver closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He really didn't want to argue, and he could feel his blood pressure rising a little and the clench of his jaw hardened. When he opened them again, it was to meet narrowed green eyes glaring back at him. “You're angry about something.”

Barry rolled his eyes, crossing his arms on his chest with a huff. “I'm _not_ angry.”

And seriously, that was _enough_. Oliver felt the pressure build, and he couldn't hold it in any longer.

“You know what? Fine.” Oliver snapped with a low growl, earning him a flinch from Barry and a glare from Mrs Bedril, the school librarian. He sent her an apologetic glance, before turning his attention back to Barry, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Fine, Barry. Forget about it. But I'm not going to sit here while you completely ignore me and pretend that you're not pissed about something. I'm leaving. Right now.”

Barry swallowed thickly, glancing up at him, expression softened a little. “Oliver, I--”

But Oliver was already marching away, and he couldn't bring himself to meet Barry's eyes again. He could barely think through the rushing blood pounding through his ears, nor the frantic pounding of his heart. Something unpleasant was boiling in the pit of his stomach, and he seriously had to get out of there before it erupted.

And, _shit_ , since when did he get so bent out of shape over Barry Allen? He'd spent years in high school with him, admiring him from afar, and the distance had never bothered him before. Or, well, not quite to this extent.

Something had changed between them, though, over the weekend, then suddenly when he'd returned to school, it was like it had never happened as far as Barry was concerned. There was definitely something Barry wasn't telling him, and he was sick of trying to be the voice of reason. That wasn't Oliver's style at all. The fact that he'd even tried spoke volumes, really. He was _done_ trying.

 

***

 

 __**Digg [Recieved 17:14]:  
** _ _ Hey, man. I'm gonna be in town at the weekend, are you free?

Despite his foul mood, Oliver allowed himself to smile at the text. He hadn't really seen John since school started back. His best friend was a year ahead of him, and had departed to serve in the military near the start of term.

Honestly, time with his best friend was just what he needed right now.

After leaving the library and arriving home, he'd hit the gym, then retreated up to his bedroom. Really, he should have been practising his archery – the tournament was a little over two weeks away, and he still wasn't ready, but he wasn't in the right frame of mind. If he'd even made a slight attempt at handling a bow and arrow right now, he'd probably end up seriously injuring himself.

He shifted on his mattress, springs screeching below him as he tried to get himself into a more comfortable position. He'd been like this since arriving home, really – restless, furious and tired.

His phone vibrated again, and Oliver swiped the screen.

 __**Tommy [Recieved 17:21]:  
** _ _ __Digg's coming back for the weekend – you still got your fake ID?_ _

Oliver smirked.

Yeah, this was exactly what he needed. To blow of some steam – get a little drunk, maybe pick up a hot girl. It had been a while since he'd been with anyone, and maybe he could get his mind off Barry and his ridiculously handsome face for one night.

 

_***_

 

“What's eating you?”

Barry sighed heavily, lowering his book. “Hey, Iris.”

“Hey, Barr.” Iris smiled, approaching him slowly before perching beside him on the bed that he was currently slouched on. She leaned her back against the headboard, fixing Barry with a worried expression. “I tried to call you, but you didn't answer.”

He swallowed, then nodded. “I-- I guess I was just distracted.”

Iris's eyes trailed down to the book in his hands, and she snorted. “By Harry Potter? Come on, Barry. I know you've read that like a million times.”

Barry raised his eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe not a million. Exaggeration. But you've read it a _lot_ .” She corrected with a teasing grin. Barry huffed, and she nudged him gently. “Come on, you look miserable. What's wrong?”

He shrugged, avoiding eye contact.

“Barry,” Iris said softly, her lips dropping into a concerned frown. She shuffled a little closer to him, running a palm over his back. His tense shoulders eased up a little under her touch. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Barry raised his eyes to meet hers. They were so open – so honest, and to tell the truth, Barry was kind of sick of lying to her. He shuffled a little so that he was directly facing her, fixing her with a serious expression. “I-- I need to tell you something.”

Iris arched her eyebrows. “Anything, Barry.”

Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes for a second, Barry willed himself to gather the courage. He could do this. Iris was his best friend. She wouldn't judge him – wouldn't look at him differently. Iris knew him to the depths of his soul, as he knew her. Fuck, they'd grown up together. They were practically siblings. She wouldn't treat him differently – not about _this_ .

So why was this so difficult? Why was his heart pounding in his chest? Why were his palms so sweaty? Why was he finding it so difficult to articulate what he'd blurted out to Oliver Queen, someone who he'd barely spoken to before that day, completely by accident? God, he couldn't even look at her right now. “I--”, fuck, he was trembling so hard.

_Get it over with, Barry. Like a band aid._

“I'm-- I like guys,” he paused, swallowing thickly, running his palms over his face. “In the way that I should like girls.”

He waited with bated breath for Iris to say something – anything. He wished that he could gather the courage to look her in the eyes – to maybe get a hint of her reaction, but he just-- he was just so _scared_ .

Then, Iris let out a soft puff of laughter, tilting his chin up so that he was looking directly at her. She wore a fond smile on her lips, and her eyes were softened. “Barry, do you honestly think I care about that?”

Barry exhaled a shaky breath, pressure easing from his chest ever so slightly. “No,” he admitted. “Not really. It's just-- it's kind of terrifying to admit it out loud.”

Iris nodded. Then, without warning, she drew him into her arms, and Barry felt his shoulders tighten from the sudden move. Iris didn't let go, though, just tightened her grip, and Barry quickly relaxed into her touch, closing his eyes and wrapping his arms around her waist, letting her warmth spread through his bones.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said, giving him one final squeeze before letting go. “So, is this what's been bothering you?”

“I--” Barry sighed heavily. “No,” he admitted. “It's-- kind of related, but-- no.”

Iris's lips pressed into a tight line. “Is this about a boy?” Heat crept up the back of his neck and across his cheeks, and Iris let out a small chuckle. “It is, huh?”

“Maybe,” Barry agreed quietly, glancing down at his hands again. “I-- I like someone, and I think that he might like me back, but-- well, it's complicated. Neither of us are _out_ , and I just-- I don't want to ruin his life. He has a lot going for him.”

Iris watched him with curious eyes. “What's his name? Do I know him?”

“I--” Barry hesitated. If Thea and Moira were right, and Oliver was bisexual, he doubted that the other boy would want it shared with _anyone_ . As far as he knew, no one knew about it, and Oliver seemed intent on keeping it that way. He wasn't going to betray him, no matter how much he trusted Iris. “I can't say.”

Iris nodded, understanding clear in her eyes. “Look, I-- I don't know if this will help, but-- when I met Eddie, it seemed like everything was getting in the way of us getting together, you know? He was two years older than me, and he was an intern for my dad, and it just seemed so... _impossible_ . But, I-- I guess we were stubborn.” She let out a small puff of laughter. “He was actually supposed to be on a date the night that I ran into him. With a girl from his gym – _Shelby_ ,” she said in a teasing manner. “But she stood him up, and I ran into him, and we just-- we got to talking, you know? And I guess we just connected.” Iris shrugged. “We took a risk by getting together, but it was worth it.”

“It's-- this is different.”

“I know it is, Barry,” she agreed, lips dipping into a small frown. “I wish I could say it wasn't, but I know how high schools can be, and I know that a lot of the assholes in there haven't exactly been kind to you, but-- all I'm saying is that if you really like him, maybe you need to make your own rules. That's what we did.”

“It's not just high school politics, Iris,” Barry told her with a sigh. “He's-- he has a lot to lose, here. I can't let him ruin his life for this.”

“Don't you think that it's him that should be making that decision?” Iris asked him, fixing him with a piercing expression.

Barry shrugged his shoulders, unwilling to admit out loud that maybe she was right.

He thought back to the cheque. Of course, he was never planning on cashing it – refused to accept bribery, no matter what the intentions were behind it. But he just-- he couldn't bring himself to throw it out, so he'd tucked it away in his desk drawer, behind some notepads, to remind himself why he couldn't pursue this thing with Oliver.

But... what if Moira was wrong? Sure, Oliver still liked women, and that had worked to his advantage so far, but how long before it truly started to catch up to him? Barry knew what it was like to hide a part of yourself for fear of being ostracised from society. It was like having part of you trapped underground – unable to breathe, nor see the light of day, while the rest of you floated along, trying to pretend that everything was okay. It _hurt_ .

So, yeah. Maybe he should talk to Oliver.

 

_***_

 

 __Screw Barry Allen_ _ _._

Okay, not like-- not _screw_ , you know? Not, well... he did want to, but that wasn't--

The point was, Barry clearly didn't want anything to do with him, and Oliver was taking the hint loud and fucking clear, which is why he was at Verdant on a Friday night, drowning his sorrows in the bottom of a bottle.

“You okay, man? You've been weird all night.”

Oliver frowned, swaying a little to meet his friend's eyes. “No, I'm-- I'm okay. Booze just got to my head, 'sall.”

John frowned, reaching out to hold Oliver steady. “Okay, you're done here. You've had enough. I'm taking you home.”

Oliver snorted. “I'm fine, Digg. c'n handle myself .”

He shook his head. “Don't make me manhandle you, Oliver. You know I will.”

He probably would, too. John Diggle was built like a tank, and showed no mercy when it came to doing what he believed in.

Still, he was hardly in a party mood. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't get his mind off Barry. He just seemed so... pissed with him, and Oliver couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

And as much as Oliver tried not to, he still felt a warmth in his chest when he thought about the other boy - when he imagined what it would be like to run his hands through his hair, taste his lips on his own, press his body against--

Yeah. He couldn't stop thinking about Barry.

It was getting pretty late, anyway. Tommy had already left - with slim-blonde-of-the-week #3 attached firmly to his arm, of course, and John was staring him down as though he was going to drag Oliver out by the hair if he didn't agree to go home right now. So, he complied, allowing John to steady him by draping Oliver's arm around his shoulders and hoisting him from the barstool.

John never seemed to get drunk whenever they went out together. Sure, he'd drank as much as Oliver and Tommy had, but Tommy had left in a rather tipsy state, and Oliver was-- well, pretty damn hammered, if he was being completely honest with himself. It was almost unfair, really.

“What's going on with you, Oliver?” He asked him as he manoeuvred them along the street, still gripping him tight. Good thing, too, because the world had tilted on it's axis for Oliver, and he wasn't sure if his shaky legs could handle walking on their own. He could barely see in front of him.

“'m just-- tired,” Oliver admitted. “Of hiding .”

John stopped them in their tracks, peering over at Oliver. His eyes were glazed over, and he could barely think straight. Why was everything spinning?

“Hiding what?” His friend asked curiously.

Oliver glanced up at him with a frown. “Y'wouldn't understand,” he slurred, trying to clear the fog in his head so that he could actually comprehend what he was saying. “S'not _normal_ , y'know?”

John's forehead creased with worry. “What's not normal, Oliver?”

“I just-- I have-- _feelings_ .” Oliver admitted.

“Vague much?” John asked with a small, amused smirk. “Do you think the world will crumble just because Oliver Queen has finally let some girl wrangle his heart?”

His eyes slid away from John's to focus intently on the ground. “S'not a girl,” Oliver said quietly, as though it would stop his friend from hearing him properly.

It didn't, of course. After all the army training he'd had, John's senses were intense. He could hear a pin drop in a room full of noise, so Oliver's whispers certainly did not fall upon deaf ears.

To his credit, John only looked shocked for a few seconds, before he managed to wrestle his expression into something more neutral. Oliver gave him a minute to process it.

“Huh,” is all he said. “Go figure. Come on, let's get you home.”

Even through the brain fog, Oliver managed a soft smile, because Diggle was the best friend in the whole world. “M'kay,” he agreed.

 

_***_

 

After his talk with Iris, Barry was finding it a little difficult to sleep, no matter how tired he felt. All he could think about was Oliver, and how he'd been a colossal dick to the guy, purely because he'd allowed someone to get into his head.

Sure, Moira had the best of intentions – Barry had no doubt, but Iris was right. Oliver deserved to make the decision for himself, not to have other people decide for him.

Still, Barry found himself, yet again, questioning as to whether or not Oliver truly _did_ like him, or if everyone was just reading a little too much into it. He had thought it was odd the way that the guy's eyes seemed to be on him in class – seemed to pierce through him when they spoke, but maybe Oliver was just that intense with everyone. It didn't mean that he had any special feelings for Barry, right?

He had to talk to him, though. He had to clear things up.

A loud buzz rang out from his phone, causing Barry to jolt a little, because _what the fuck_? Who the hell was calling him at this time?

He squinted at the screen.

_Speak of the devil._

Without thinking too much into it, he swiped to answer immediately. “Oliver?”

“ _Barryyyyy,_ ” Oliver giggled into the line.

Barry ran his palm over his eye, trying to clear some of the tiredness from them. “I-- uhm. Hi?”

“ _I've been thinking._ ”

He huffed softly in amusement. “You've been _drinking_ , more like.”

“ _No I-- well, yeah, that too, but--_ ”

“Where are you?” Barry cut in, briefly panicking that Oliver was in some sort of trouble.

“ _'m home. It's okay, though, 'sonly me. Mom's out 'n Thea's having a sleepover,_ ” Oliver whispered, as though he were telling some great secret that he couldn't allow anyone else to hear.

Barry frowned, brows pinched in concern. “You're home alone?”

“Mhmmm,” Oliver mumbled. Then, he heard a crash through the line, and-- “ _\--OW! Fuck_!”

He felt a pang of panic run through his chest. “What happened?”

“ _I just-- someone moved m'fuckin' bed,_ ” Oliver grumbled, causing Barry to bite down on his bottom lip to stifle his laughter.

“Okay, you can't be alone right now. I'm coming over.”

Oliver didn't answer – in fact, Barry was fairly certain he could hear some snoring down the line, and he chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully. On one hand, if the other boy was sleeping already, it meant that he probably wouldn't be getting himself into any further trouble. On the other hand, though, he worried that if Oliver needed help throughout the night, there would be no one there to aid him.

He couldn't help but think back to Caitlin's disastrous foray into the world of alcohol a few months back. She hadn't been in a good place at the time, having just broken up with Ronnie, so she had decided it would be a good idea to get ridiculously wasted on her own at the local park.

To this day, Barry still had no idea how she'd managed to get her hands on alcohol without fake ID, but when she'd called Barry to come and pick her up, he panicked. For good reason, too. By the time he'd reached the park, Caitlin was passed out, and he had to haul her to the car, checking her vitals every few minutes. She'd woken up pretty quickly, begging Barry not to take her to the hospital, and Barry compromised by going home with her. He hadn't slept at all that night, solely focused on making sure that his friend didn't choke on her own vomit.

It was, without a doubt, one of the most terrifying nights of his entire life.

So, yeah, it was a no-brainer, really. He wasn't going to get any sleep tonight, anyway. Might as well make sure that Oliver was okay in the process.

 

***

 

“Oliver,” Barry sighed, jabbing his finger down on the intercom furiously. “Come on, _please_ answer.”

He'd been parked outside the Queen mansion for about five minutes, trapped outside the security gates, only the chirping of crickets for company. He couldn't help but be thankful that it was ass-o'clock in the morning, though, considering that he hadn't bothered to change out of his bathrobe and Batman pyjamas in his blind panic.

Eventually, a low buzz came from the speaker, followed by a gruff, slurred voice. “ _Hellooo?_ ”

Barry snorted, small smile on his face. “It's Barry. Buzz me in.”

 

***

 

Once he'd pulled up onto the driveway, he was greeted by the sight of Oliver Queen standing at the doors to the mansion, wobbling slightly on his feet, but grinning at Barry with reverence, causing Barry's chest to warm at the sight. 

“Hey, big guy,” Barry teased, smirk firmly in place. He closed the car door over with a sharp _thud_ . “Are you okay?”

At that, Oliver's smile dipped, and his facial expression changed into one of perplexity. “Of course I'm okay. Why?”

Now that he could get a clear view of Oliver, he was taken aback by his appearance. His hair was all over the place, his eyes heavy and bloodshot.

He shook his head with a huff, making his way up the path. “Honestly, how did you even manage to get this drunk?”

Oliver frowned as Barry approached him, leaning against the door-frame and gazing intently down at the ground. “You hate me.”

Guilt crashed through him like a wave. Was this his fault? Did Oliver really think that Barry was pissed at him? “I don't hate you, Oliver,” Barry said softly, his lips tilted into a small frown. “I'm sorry if I made you feel that way.”

Oliver's entire posture seemed to relax. He raised his palm, resting it gently against Barry's cheek, a soft smile on his lips. Then, without warning, he leaned forward, pressing his lips to Barry's. His eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned into it for a few seconds, before he jolted back, Oliver stumbling a little to stop himself from falling over.

“Oliver, I--”

“--sorry. M'sorry,” Oliver groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. “--such an _idiot_ .”

“You're not-- I just-- Oliver, you're drunk. I can't do this right now. You don't know what you're doing.”

“Know what 'm doing, Barry,” Oliver grumbled in protest, squinting at him.

Barry rolled his eyes, draping Oliver's arm over his shoulders, walking through the dark, empty halls until they reached Oliver's bedroom.

When Oliver hit the bed with a soft _thump_ , and after a brief struggle, managed to get the covers over him, Barry turned to make his way to the spare bedroom, but Oliver just snagged onto his hand. “Stay,” he told him, voice hoarse.

Shaking his head, Barry tugged in an attempt to get his hand back, but it only jolted him forward a little, and he had to quickly steady himself to stop himself from falling on the bed next to Oliver.

“Let go,” Barry said, squeezing his hand gently in order to make sure that Oliver didn't take it as a rejection. He just didn't want Oliver to wake up in a panic with Barry beside him, no memory of the previous night.

“Please,” Oliver said, all pleading eyes and pouted lips. Fucking hell.

“Fine,” Barry muttered, “But you have to let go for a second, okay?”

Oliver complied, and Barry shrugged of his bathrobe, moving to drape it on one of the empty hooks on the wall, beside what he assumed was Oliver's jacket. He turned back to the other boy and swallowed thickly, Oliver still gazing up at him expectantly. With a sigh, he made his way back over to the king-sized bed, the mattress dipping ever so slightly as Barry shuffled himself next to Oliver, who slung his arm around his waist with a satisfied hum, hooking their legs together. Barry's breath caught in his throat, but he couldn't deny that it didn't feel amazing.

“You're going to regret this in the morning,” Barry warned him, but Oliver just snorted, smiling softly at him. Then, he leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to Barry's cheek.

For a few minutes, Barry lay there with a soft smile on his face, listening as Oliver's breathing evened out, allowing himself to imagine a world without social pressures. A world where two guys could be together, and not worry about the entire world judging them. A world without bullies, or overprotective families. A world in which he'd get to have this – have Oliver wrapped around him – every night, without any boundaries holding them back.

It would be a pretty perfect world, he decided. He smiled down at Oliver's arm, which was still tightly holding onto his waist, and finally, _finally_ allowed the tiredness to carry him away.

 

 

 


	8. The Durability Bias

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psychology Lesson #8: This one is a little less about attraction and more about personal emotions. (Let's face it, there's not enough attraction theories to cover the entire story, and there are plenty of other relevant theories anyway!)
> 
> The basic premise to The Durability Bias refers to the complexity of human emotions. Basically, mood swings. Whatever our emotions are at the time that they arise, we are unrealistic about how long they will last. So, for example, if someone is angry at a friend, they overestimate the duration that they will feel the anger for, when in actual fact, they tend to return to a more neutral position in a fairly short amount of time. So to sum up – human emotions are fickle, and emotions such as anger tend to dissipate over a short period time, returning us to something more neutral. 
> 
> ((And on a non-Psychology note: I'm sorry about the delay in getting this chapter out! I was pretty busy with Seblaine week. Also, though, through the course of the week, I seem to have started two new multi-chapters. Er... oops? So updates will slow down, but hopefully not too much.))

When Oliver woke up the next morning up was vaguely aware of three things; one, his head felt like it had been brutally attacked with a drain pipe. Two, he really needed to learn self-restraint when it came to alcohol. Three, he _not_ alone.

He tried to grasp at his memories to piece it all together in a brief panic, because he was pretty damn certain he'd remember picking someone up the night before. He'd left the bar with Diggle, right? His friend had walked him home, and he...

_Fuck_ , he came out to Digg, he realised with a pang. His heart clenched in his chest, and he wasn't quite sure what to do with that information, so he filed it away as _things to deal with later_ , because it still told him nothing about the mysterious figure beside him.

Digg had walked him home, he went to bed - he could remember _that_ much. But he also remembered tossing and turning, and grasping for his phone in the middle of the night and scrolling through his contacts until he reached...

_Fuck_.

It hit him like a tonne of bricks.

He called _Barry._

Barry came to his _house_.

Oliver had tried to fucking _kiss_ him, and he fuzzily recalled pulling him into bed with him.

He moved as slowly as he could, gently removing his arms from the waist of the person beside him – _Barry, god_ – in favour of sitting upright, running his hands over his face to rub away the haze of sleep.

And _shit_ – this was not good. Not good at all. Oliver has fucked up before, but this - _this_ he was entirely sure he wouldn't be able to repair. He'd tried to kiss him last night, and Barry had pushed him away. Barry tried to leave, and Oliver made him stay.

He'd fucked up so bad.

Barry sounded out a sleepy groan beside him, which totally _didn't_ have him imagining the other boy making those noises in a totally different situation - perhaps with Oliver on top of him, and Barry's legs wrapped around his waist, and....

_Okay, no._

Barry had made it perfectly clear last night that he wasn't interested, and Oliver definitely wasn't the type of person to try and _make_ somebody like him. That wouldn't be fair. He deserved to pick who he got to be with, and if that person wasn't Oliver, he could live with it, no matter what his personal feeling were.

And what happened to _staying away_ , anyway? Hadn't he resolved not to do anything about this? There was still far too much at stake. For one, Oliver was very much in the closet, and more importantly, so was Barry. He didn't much care for his own reputation, and he could certainly handle himself if anyone had tried to give him shit for it, but Barry already had a bad time at school as it was, and that was without him openly admitting to his sexuality.

Plus, there was the campaign. His mother had worked so hard over the summer building it up – what would happen if Oliver were to make an enemy of Snart and his associates? His mother would lose a few backers, that was for sure. She would lose the entire campaign, and it would be all Oliver's fault, because he couldn't keep it in his damn pants.

“Oliver?”

Oliver blinked as Barry shifted beside him, still very much aware of the other's body heat radiating across the bed.

“Barry,” Oliver greeted, a little shaky.

Barry grumbled, covering his face a little from the sunlight, and Oliver let out a soft puff of laughter in spite of himself, because _that_ was just fucking adorable.

 

 

***

 

Breakfast was a little awkward.

They hadn't really spoken much when Barry had awoken, despite efforts on both ends. Oliver had been trying to work his way to an apology, while Barry... well, he wasn't sure exactly what Barry was trying to say, but he hadn't quite managed it, none-the-less. It had consisted of a few aborted sentences before Oliver had scrambled out of the bed, loudly suggesting that they have breakfast, and Barry just nodding, because he clearly didn't know what to say on the matter, either.

He sighed, stabbing at his omelette with his fork, and Barry took tiny nibbles at his own omelette across the table, eyeing him warily.

He wasn't sure what Barry was even still _doing_ here. If he were in Barry's position, he'd have left the first chance he got. But for some reason, the younger seemed rather reluctant to go.

Oliver still had a mild headache from the hangover, and in all honesty, he was seriously grateful that his mother wouldn't be home until the following day. She would have made him practice in the range, no matter how shaky his hands were.

Which, yeah. The competition was drawing nearer and nearer, and he'd been seriously neglecting it as of late. He'd really dropped the ball in the past few weeks.

It was all Wells' fault, really. He'd been perfectly content silently admiring Barry from afar - letting himself believe that he and Barry were probably too different to ever be friends, never mind anything more. He was able to convince himself that it was just the _idea_ of Barry that he liked.

But, now? Now Oliver knows Barry. He _feels_ things for Barry - things that he's never really felt for anyone else.

Sure, he'd been fond of Sara - their relationship was pleasant, but neither of them had been under the illusion that it was anything more than a bit of fun. But Barry - _fuck_ \- Barry just _did_ things to Oliver without really trying. His stomach tended to flutter whenever he clapped eyes on him, and every time they would accidentally brush together, it always took a while for the tingles to stop dancing across his skin, and it was such a fucking _distraction_ from everything else in his life.

Needless to say, he was in pretty deep, and he had no idea how to find his way back to the surface. It wasn't like he could just avoid Barry - they had a freaking assignment to work on, after all, and even if they didn't, Oliver doubted that he had it in him to just cut Barry out of his life at this point.

"How are you feeling?" Barry asked timidly, drawing him from his spiralling thoughts. He was absently raking at the omelette with his fork, and pointedly _not_ looking at Oliver.

He frowned, averting his own gaze, rubbing gently at the back of his neck with his palm as a mild heat began to creep its way across his cheeks. "Honestly? Mortified."

He heard Barry huff a quiet laugh. "Don't be. You were kinda adorable."

At that, he glanced up, his eyes scanning over Barry's face to see the light flush on Barry's cheeks.

Oliver set his fork down, giving up on the pretence of eating. He doubted he'd be able to keep it down anyway – he was still feeling kind of nauseous. "I'm so sorry, Barry. I don't-- I shouldn't have tried to-- uh--"

"--kiss me?" Barry cut in, smirking around his fork as he took another bite.

Oliver nodded stiffly, propping his elbows on the table in front of him and burying his face in his palms.

"Did you mean it?" Barry asked.

He peeked through his fingers at Barry. "Mean what?"

“If you were sober, would you have wanted to kiss me? Or was it just a... a drunk thing?”

Oliver sighed, lowering his hands to fix Barry with a wary gaze. “Don't do this.”

“Do what?” Barry asked, perplexed.

“Don't make me talk about this. I got the hint last night, okay? We can drop it now.”

There was an awkward pause, in which all that could be heard was the rattling of plates and cutlery, and then Barry seemed to gather himself, letting out a shaky breath.

“I don't think you did, actually,” He said quietly.

“Excuse me?” Oliver asked, his head darting up to glare at Barry.

Barry quirked an eyebrow. “You heard me.”

Oliver scoffed. “What does that even _mean_ , Barry? Look, it was a mistake. I'm sorry. I was drunk. We're _done_ talking about this.”

“Just a drunken mistake?” Barry asked, voice tight. “That's all it was?”

“Yes,” Oliver gritted out between clenched teeth.

Barry's face fell, and his fork hit his plate with a clatter as his fingers loosened around it. “I should... go,” he said shakily, eyes darting to the door as though he was scoping out an escape route.

“Yeah, you should,” He heard himself utter in reply, ignoring the sharp stab of guilt in his chest at the hurt in Barry's expression.

He was being an ass – he _knew_ he was being an ass, but he also didn't know how to stop. It was better this way, anyway – better that Barry truly saw Oliver for what he was. That way he didn't need to worry about hurting Oliver with his rejection.

Hurt seemed to harden into anger on Barry's face, and his chair made a harsh scraping noise across the tiles as he rose to his feet, fixing Oliver with a glare. “You know what, _Ollie_? Fine. Forget about it. Let's just go back to being-- god, what even _are_ we?”

“Lab partners,” Oliver grumbled through the tightness in his throat, eyes fixed on his half-eaten omelette.

Barry huffed an unamused laugh. “Fine, _partner_. See you at school.”

He didn't even make an attempt to rise to walk Barry to the door – he knew the way out, anyway, and Oliver seemed to be temporarily glued to the spot.

He swallowed thickly as he listened to the descending footsteps. Part of him wanted to run after Barry and apologise, tell him that he _wanted_ to kiss him, but part of him – the winning part of him – knew that _that_ was a very bad idea.

 

***  
  


 

Monday morning arrived way too fast, as far as Barry was concerned. As the rest of the students poured into the class, he let out a deep sigh.

First period wouldn't be so bad, to be fair – it was only Chemistry, and he was good at that. It was second period that was causing the dread that was swirling in his gut, really. _Psychology_.

“What's eating you?”

Barry's eyes darted up from where he was practically glaring a hole through the pencil in his hand, to meet a pair of blue irises staring back at him. He nodded stiffly in greeting, not even managing to muster enough energy to give Felicity a proper hello.

“Whoa, okay. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Felicity said, swooping around her desk in favour of taking her usual seat beside Barry and fixing him with a worried gaze. “What gives?”

He shrugged, eyes darting back to his pencil in his hand, as he rolled it between his fingers nervously. “I don't really wanna talk about it,” he mumbled.

She glanced around the classroom, before leaning a little closer to him, lowering her voice. “Is it Snart again?”

Barry nodded, because yeah, in all honesty, that was part of the problem, and it was better than talking about the _other thing_. Snart had been pretty brutal with him the previous week, and his worry about when the bully would strike next really wasn't helping his anxiety.

Of course – the whole Snart thing wasn't really the main issue that was on his mind right now. Try as he might, he'd been unable to stop thinking about his conversation with Oliver. He had spent the entire weekend running it through his head, trying to read it through as many difficult angles as he could, but he still couldn't quite make sense of where it had gone so wrong. He'd seemed so _pissed_ by the end of it.

“Barry, you need to go to Lance about it. It's getting _worse_. You're going to end up hurt,” Felicity said, drawing his train of thought back to Snart.

He smiled sadly at her, not having the heart to tell her about the events of the previous week. Felicity had already forgotten that she had been mad that Barry had stood her up, and he really didn't want to drag it all up again. “I already went to Lance, remember? It didn't exactly go in my favour.”

It was true. He'd tried to talk to Lance way back in his first year at the school, when Snart and his gang had started on him. It had resulted in all of his tormentors being put in detention, and Barry limping home battered and bruised at the end of the day when they'd taken it out on him. Sadly, Lance's powers were limited, as much as he tried to help. He'd kind of given up on seeking help from the teachers, and just went with it.

Felicity didn't question him further, but Barry noticed that she was shooting him concerned glances throughout the lesson. Once it was over, and the rest of the class started trickling out to make their way to the next period, she turned back to Barry. “How is your project going?”

He froze, looking back at Felicity timidly. “Um, okay? What about you?”

Felicity shrugged. “We haven't made that much progress. Sara's been pretty busy, but we still have a few months to complete it, so we'll manage. What's it like working with Oliver Queen?”

“It... it's okay,” Barry replied with a small tremble that he hoped Felicity couldn't hear in his voice.

She let out a heavy sigh. “It's so _unfair_ that you get paired with the only hot guy in our class.”

“Hey!” Barry shot back.

“No, I-- you don't count. You're like my brother. Who I kissed that one time. But you-- but that's--”

He snorted, prodding his babbling friend gently on the ribs. “I'm joking. I know what you mean.” Then, he paused, thinking over what Felicity had said beforehand, and unpleasantness churned in his gut. “Wait, do you _like_ Oliver?”

“No! I-- well, he's cute, but I--” Then, Felicity stopped, brows furrowed as she surveyed Barry's face. He ducked his head awkwardly. “ _Oh_.”

_Fuck_. _Be more obvious, Barry._

“What?” he gritted out, rubbing the back of his neck as it began to flush with heat.

“ _You_ like him,” she said softly, lips dipped into a frown. “Oh, Barry. He's straight. You know that, right?”

He opened his mouth to protest, and then snapped it shut again. “Right,” he muttered. “I know. Just-- just forget it, okay? I don't really wanna talk about it.”

She sighed, standing from her seat and holding her arm out for Barry to take. “Come on, Romeo. We need to go to Psychology. We're _so_ not done talking about this, though.”

He grumbled non-coherently, reaching out for her. He knew that Felicity had good intentions and all, but sometimes he just needed to keep stuff to himself now and again, and his friend had a hard time accepting that.

 

***

 

“Ah, Mr Allen, Miss Smoak. Nice of you to join us,” Wells called out as Barry and Felicity entered the classroom arm in arm.

Oliver squirmed in his chair awkwardly.

“Sorry, Mr Wells,” Felicity frowned. “We, ah- we got distracted.” And then, at Wells' raised eyebrow, she went wide-eyed. “No! Not like that. We're not-- he and I are not--”

“They get it, Felicity. Come on.” Barry replied, tugging her towards the two empty desks in the room.

Oliver frowned as he watched the two take their seats. He felt like _shit_ for the way that he had acted at the weekend. He'd spent pretty much the rest of his time staring at his phone, trying to work up the courage to call Barry to apologise. It wasn't his fault that Oliver felt the way that he did, and he shouldn't have taken it out on him – especially after he'd come over in the middle of the night so that Oliver wasn't alone while drunk.

“As I'm sure you're aware, next week I'm going to be starting the progress meetings on your projects, to see how far you've gotten with them. In light of this, you're going to spend this lesson with your partner, making sure that you at least have some semblance of a plan, _am I clear, Mr Rory_?”

Oliver glanced around to see Mick Rory and Leonard Snart, frozen mid-whisper at Wells' attention. His mouth flapped open and shut a few times, before Wells moved on, having made his point. “Now, you're going to have to re-arrange your seats. I have some photocopies to make, so just get started.” He waved his hands in the air in a flippant shooing gesture.

Oliver glanced at Barry, gripping onto his pen tight. Every time Wells left the room, Snart always started on him, and Oliver _really_ needed to make sure that his emotions were in check so that he could help Barry without pissing Snart off. It was getting harder and harder each time.

There was scraping of chairs and a lot of rustling as the class re-arranged themselves, Barry taking the desk next to Oliver's, but still avoiding his gaze. Which, yeah – he pretty much deserved the silent treatment, to be honest.

After Wells left, though, Barry turned to him, attempting a weak air of nonchalance. “I guess we should probably put our plan together.”

Oliver sighed. Now was as good of a time to apologise than any. “Listen, Barry, I--”

“Hey, Oliver! You better watch out,” he heard Snart call out. Oliver turned his head, seeing that he was sat a few rows behind them, next to Rory – his partner, who was looking positively gleeful at the exchange. “Allen looks like he's about to kiss you. I hope the homo virus isn't contagious.”

There was a rumble of laughter throughout the room, and Barry seemed to shrink in on himself a little, not daring to look at Snart. Oliver clenched his fists, biting down on his tongue.

“Ignore him,” Barry offered, muttering quietly so that only Oliver could hear.

“Stop hitting on him. You're making him uncomfortable. Isn't he, Oliver?”

Oliver took a slow breath, in and out, trying to calm his racing heart. It wouldn't do to escalate the situation, but he didn't really know what the right course of action was, here, anyway. Thankfully, he was saved having to answer when Wells wheeled himself back into the room, a large pile of papers on his lap.

Oliver exhaled slowly, turning to Barry. “I'm sorry,” he offered quietly once Snart turned away, picking back up from the conversation as though they hadn't been interrupted by the dick in the first place. He could tell by Barry's face that Snart's comments had gotten to him, but there was no point in trying to talk to him about it – there wasn't much that they could do. Better to take his mind off them entirely. “I shouldn't have taken my bad mood out on you,” he continued. “It was a shitty thing to do.”

Barry shrugged, but the corners of his lips folded up a little anyway, which Oliver counted as a win. “Let's just work on the project.”

Oliver nodded, chest feeling a little lighter. It hadn't completely solved everything, but it was a start.

They spent the rest of the lesson scanning through their books, picking out some relevant topics, but by the time the bell rang for break, they hadn't really managed to come up with much more than they already had. Throughout the lesson, he'd noticed Snart and Rory whispering and looking over at Barry constantly, and he felt a vague sense of dread work its way from the pit of his stomach.

They were planning something – he knew it.

“We should probably set another study date,” Oliver blurted out as the rest of the class began to pour out, then cringed internally as he realised the words he'd used, but if Barry noticed, he didn't say anything.

He glanced behind him, noticing the way that Snart and Rory were looking at Barry as they followed the rest of the class out the room – twin smirks on their faces, and when he turned his gaze back to Barry, he saw the other boy eyeing them warily, but he continued their conversation as though nothing were amiss.

“Well, Joe's working night shift tonight, so I pretty much have my house to myself, if you want to--?”

Oliver bit his lip, thinking of every single reason why he shouldn't go back to Barry's house – number one being that it would mean that he'd be in a house _alone_ with Barry, and couldn't guarantee that he wouldn't make a fool out of himself again. On the other hand, _screw it_.

“Sounds good,” he replied. Then, thinking of Snart and Rory, he added, “Just-- wait for me in the classroom, okay?” _Where there's a teacher_ , he didn't add. But Barry seemed to understand, anyway, because he didn't argue.

“Okay. See you then.”


	9. The Affective Stage of Social Penetration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS. I'm so sorry it's taken so long to update! I've had a looot to write lately and got a little sidetracked. I hope this chapter makes up for it! 
> 
> Psychology Lesson #9:
> 
> Social Penetration theory refers to the way in which as familiarity increases, relationships grow deeper into more private and intimate matters. There are five stages.
> 
> 1\. Orientation stage  
> This is the sort of introductory stage where conversations consist of small talk and shallow topics, keeping within the boundaries of social expectations and norms.
> 
> 2\. Exploratory affective stage  
> This is where a relationship grows that little bit more comfortable, and the people involved begin to explore and express themselves a little more in terms of personal attitudes and concerns regarding topics such as politics. A lot of relationships stay in this stage - where a friendship is formed, but the people are maybe still somewhat restrained as not to scare or offend. 
> 
> 3\. Affective stage  
> In the Affective stage (which is what the chapter title concerns), people begin to talk a little bit more about personal matters, and people are more comfortable contrasting the views of the other and expressing a differing opinion or a criticism. This is also the stage where intimate touching and kissing may begin if the relationship is going to develop into a romantic one.
> 
> 4\. Stable stage  
> People begin to share even more personal, deeper things - secrets etc, and it begins to become easier to gauge and predict the emotional reactions of the other person following certain events. This is the highest stage before the relationship decreases. 
> 
> 5\. Depenetration  
> At this stage, the relationship begins to crumble due to the cost/benefit ratio being tipped in favour of cost. The people involved stop disclosing so much with one another. This can lead to termination of a relationship.

Despite the fact that he'd insisted on Barry waiting in the classroom out of concern for his safety, the sense of relief that he'd felt when he found the boy in one piece was through the roof. Whatever Snart was planning, it didn't seem like he was going to do anything today.

Which... was worrying, really, because if not today, when? What exactly was he planning that involved more than one day's preparation? The whole thing settled unpleasantly in Oliver's stomach, simmering slowly.

“So, you've been quiet. Everything okay?”

They were sitting in Oliver's car, and quite honestly, Oliver couldn't really say when they'd got there. He'd been pretty out of it the entire walk from Barry's classroom to the car park, and, yeah – he'd been quiet. He knew that.

“Sorry,” Oliver replied with a deep sigh, dragging his hands over his face. He didn't want to bring the whole Snart thing up. Didn't want to worry Barry. He was pretty sure, in all honesty, that Barry was quite aware of the way that Snart had been looking at him after class, anyway. Barry wasn't stupid. In fact, he was one of the smartest students in their entire school. Oliver had no doubt that he'd worked out that there was something suspicious going on.

They didn't talk about it.

They didn't talk about it when Oliver revved the engine, nor when he pulled out of the parking space. They didn't talk about it as he followed Barry's directions along the busy highway, grunting in frustration every time they stopped at a light. Despite the fact that not much had happened, the day seemed to have been more emotionally exhausting than usual.

The air in the car was thick and heavy, though, with all that was going unsaid – and he didn't just mean the looming threat of Snart hanging over them like a dark cloud.

There was also this... thing that was between them, whatever it was. This push and pull that seemed to have them drawn towards one another at one moment and pushing away at the next, Oliver unable to do so much as sit in the same vicinity as Barry without aching to close the distance between them. Gripping his hands a little tighter on the steering wheel, he avoided Barry's piercing gaze, the other boy seemingly searching him for answers that just wasn't ready to give.

Needless to say, Oliver felt the relief wash over him when he pulled into the small driveway and the engine stuttered to a halt. He cleared his throat, then nudged his way out of the car, Barry following suit.

“It's not much,” Barry told him apologetically as they crunched their way across the path, and Oliver glanced up at the building.

Yeah, okay, was small. He knew that it would be. But that didn't mean that it was any way better or worse than Oliver's home. Instead of the well-trimmed lawns that sat before the Queen mansion, Barry's garden was slightly overgrown, wildflowers scattered around the vicinity, and it was kind of beautiful, in a sense. Then again, Oliver did always have a fondness of natural beauty.

Barry continued to watch him closely, biting his bottom lip nervously from the front door as Oliver surveyed the area, as though he was terrified that Oliver might laugh in his face, and Oliver's heart sunk a little in his chest, because he was once again reminded of how much Barry suffered on a day-to-day basis by being knocked down constantly – sometimes physically, sometimes emotionally.

“It's nice,” he told him earnestly. “Natural.”

Barry snorted, rigid shoulders relaxing a little. “You mean _messy_.”

He felt the corners of his lips tug into a small smile and folded his arms together. “No, I mean _natural.”_ He paused for a few seconds, considering his next words carefully. “As soon as a hedge even remotely threatens to develop an extra branch in our gardens, my mom has the gardeners on it in a snap of her fingers. It's nice to see things grow without those restrictions.”

“Restrictions can be bad for the soul,” Barry agreed with a nod, tone laced with meaning that suggests that plants were the last thing on his mind right now. “I mean... how can you grow if someone is always tending you so that you fit what they want you to be, rather than who you truly are?”

All of a sudden, the air around them fell heavy, and Oliver drew in a breath as he let Barry's words flicker through his head, picking out the hidden meanings that – in all honesty – weren't really that well-hidden at all. He was saved the necessity of thinking of a reply, though, when Barry tore his eyes away in favour of rustling through his pocket for his keys, then opening his front door with a soft _click_.

The inside of the house was warm and bright – all colour and photographs lining the walls, giving off an air of _home_ and _family_ and Oliver ignored the slightly jealous twinge to his chest caused by that.

It wasn't like his mother didn't love him – she _did_ , absolutely. His mother was a strong, passionate woman who sometimes had to look out for her own needs above all others, or what she thought was best for her family. It didn't mean that she wasn't sometimes wrong, but Oliver still struggled with going against her, all the same.

But it was for this reason that his home often felt empty. All long hallways and aesthetics that were pleasing to the eye, but not so much to the heart. His mother showed her love not by spending quality time with Oliver and Thea and filling their home with memories and mementos, but by always pushing them to do better – to _be_ better.

They settled on the couch, and Oliver's mind was suddenly drawn away from his mother and onto the warmth of the body beside him. The size of the small, leather two-seater left little room for personal space, meaning that their thighs were mere inches apart, arms brushing together as the younger pulled his backpack onto his knees in favour of bringing out study materials – notes, books, laptop et cetera. As it was all spread before them on the small, wooden coffee table, Oliver was swiftly reminded of the reason that he was here in the first place.

_Right. The project._

He took a deep breath, ignoring the rush of warmth that spread through him when Barry pressed closer in favour of reaching over to pull the laptop towards them, fingers settling on his thigh for balance. Oliver felt his cheeks heat up, and was pretty sure there were specks of pink all over his face, but if Barry noticed, he didn't say anything.

“Okay, we've went into evolutionary theory a little. I don't think we should cover more than we already have on it. It's outdated. So we should probably concentrate on something a bit more up-to-date, don't you think?”

Oliver nodded, trying not to focus too much on the way that Barry nibbled on the cap of his pen, or the fact that they both seemed to be drifting closer. Somehow, the gap between their thighs was now closed over completely – and when the _hell_ did that even happen?

“So, uhm. I think we should maybe talk a little about social backgrounds?”

“I-- yeah.” In all honesty, he felt completely useless, here. He'd talked a tough game about being able to help, but he was well aware that Barry was far more knowledgable on the subject than he was. Barry seemed unperturbed, though.

“So, I think we should probably cover Social Homogamy Theory?” He asked, as though Oliver would have had the _slightest_ clue what he was talking about. Oliver sent him a glare.

“I-- okay. It's-- um--” Barry stumbled through his words upon Oliver's expression, and he grimaced internally, noting that he really needed to stop being so grumpy around Barry – the _last_ thing that he wanted to do was scare him away.

“Sorry,” Oliver sighed, rubbing his palms over his face in frustration. “It's just-- I feel like you're doing all the work here, and I'm kinda starting to feel a bit useless.”

At that, Barry's face softened, understanding eyes glancing back at him.

“You're not useless,” He replied earnestly, pressing his lips into a small empathetic smile. “I mean, we'll have to research some stuff, too. I can tell you the basics, and then we'll need to find some studies to back up what we're talking about. I'm just laying the groundwork, that's all.”

Oliver nodded stiffly, gesturing for Barry to continue.

Barry took a deep breath, before pulling one of the massive, thick books entitled _Social Psychology_ in front of them onto his lap and flipping through the pages before passing it to Oliver. “This article is from 1994, so it's not exactly _new_ , but considering that Darwin's natural selection theory dates back to the mid to late 1800's, I'm pretty sure we can consider it more up to date.”

Oliver huffed, glancing down at the pages before him. The book featured an article by a guy named _David Buss,_ complete with a picture that must have been the guy who had written it. He looked as though he was in his mid to late fifties, sporting rectangular framed glasses and a smug smile on his face.

“Buss argued that people who are born into or raised in similar social and economic backgrounds are drawn to each other,” Barry continued. “It's kind of like a form of idealism – you date the type of person that'll fit into your lifestyle.”

Barry's lips pressed into a slight frown, as though he was mulling the words over in his head, and a small crinkle appeared between his brows.

Oliver cleared his throat.“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“That's bullshit. You can be in a different social class, and still be attracted to a person.”

“I mean, yeah. The thing about these kinds of theories is that there's always contrasting evidence, or new, more up-to-date information that kind of renders it useless, and we should probably look at that kind of thing. But we can't base our report on our... personal experience.”

The last part of the sentence was said in almost a whisper, and Oliver was sure that he wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't been so focused on the movement of Barry's lips. He averted his gaze back to the book, trying not to think of exactly what Barry meant by _personal experience_.

He knew, of course. They both did. The things that they weren't saying had become clear as day, really, and the elephant in the room seemed to grow bigger and bigger every time they were around one another. It was suffocating.

Barry swallowed thickly, and Oliver could feel his gaze heavy on him. His hands trembled on the book that he was holding, eyes tracing over the words that just didn't seem to be making sense anymore.

The density of the air seemed to increase as Oliver turned to regard Barry's expression, the book falling from his hands and onto the floor with a soft _thunk_ that neither boy really registered – they were far too busy staring at one another's lips. The rest of the word seemed to melt away a little.

He had a choice, here. He could either continue to ignore this _thing_ with him and Barry – draw back, pretend that this draw between them wasn't there – he's fairly certain that Barry wouldn't say a word.

But then again, there was the frantic pounding of his heart and the goosebumps that Barry seemed to draw across his flesh whenever the other boy so much as brushed against his skin, and the way his stomach swooped and fluttered with interest any time the other boy is nearby, and how is it even _possible_ for him to ignore it?

He brought one of his hands to Barry's face, his thumb tracing over his cheekbone lightly as Barry's soft pants ghosted against his lips – and _holy shit_ , when did he get so close? Did Oliver move, or did Barry? Did they both? Oliver wasn't really sure anymore – the only thing that he was certain of was that that their lips were mere centimetres apart.

As he glanced down at the soft, inviting lips, Oliver was well aware that he was about to cross a line that he couldn't uncross. Kissing Barry while drunk was one thing – he could blame the alcohol for making him do something that he wouldn't do normally. But he was making a conscious choice, here. Whatever he chose to do next, he couldn't back away from it. He was either all in or not at all.

He leaned forward, tugging Barry towards him, capturing his lips with his own, and Barry let out a soft groan at the impact, shuffling to deepen the kiss. He moved his hands to the back of Barry's head, running his fingers over his already haphazard hair, and felt Barry sigh contentedly against his lips. His heart seemed to flutter with joy in his chest, setting his pulse racing.

Before he knew it, Barry was on his lap, both boys chest-to-chest, Oliver angling his neck and Barry leaning down, hands trailing over his face, exploring as Oliver's hand ran under Barry's shirt a little, fingers grazing the skin of his abdomen, drawing a stuttered gasp from Barry.

Oliver was a little weirded out by how not-weird it felt to kiss a guy for the first time. But maybe it was just the fact that he'd thought about this kiss for so long – ran it through his mind, considered the possibilities – what Barry would taste like, how he would feel pressed against him, how his lips would mould against his own. Somehow, it's simultaneously everything and nothing like he'd expected.

Sure, he'd kissed Barry already, but it was a peck on the lips before Barry had pushed him away. Which.. yeah. This kiss kind of gives him some clarity about that night - that Barry had only pulled away out of concern for Oliver's ability to consent in his drunken state, because the other boy was certainly eager enough now – giving back what Oliver gave him in equal measures, threading his fingers through the short strands of Oliver's hair, thighs resting at either side of Oliver's legs.

Needless to say, they didn't get any more studying done. Oliver had never spent so long mapping out another's mouth before, but he could safely say that he could do it with Barry forever. He stroked his palm gently over the other boy's cheek, and Barry sighed happily against his lips.

They broke apart, both gasping for air and Oliver shifted a little at how tight his pants had suddenly grown. Barry, to be fair, didn't really look much better off. He looked like sin incarnated, actually – all flushed cheeks, spit-slick lips and Oliver could definitely feel a hardness against his thigh.

And _shit_ , they were both going to have to take long showers after this.

 

***

  
Somehow, it became a _thing_. They'd try to study – honestly, they would – but now that they'd opened the floodgates, Barry was pretty sure that they'd never be able to shut them again. They just seemed to... drift towards one another.

It was... interesting. Barry had never really kissed anyone before. Well, there was the kiss with Felicity, but that didn't really count, right? It was over in a matter of seconds, and neither of them were even remotely into it.

Kisses with Oliver, though, _god_. They were all sizzle and fire and passion and just... everything he'd heard about in novels and on television, but hadn't really gotten to experience up until now.

They didn't talk about it. It was just something they _did_ now. They weren't a couple – neither of them seemed remotely willing to discuss what they _were_ , though.

It wasn't just during their attempted study dates, either. One minute, Barry would be walking along the corridor to his next class, and the next minute, Oliver would be tugging him into the janitor's closet in favour of pressing him against the door with a soft _thud_ and pushing their lips together, Barry's fingers knotting into Oliver's shirt as he let himself get carried away.

Apart from the impromptu makeout sessions, though, school had been pretty uneventful. Things had been pretty quiet on the Snart front, and classes had been pretty dull.

That wasn't to say that Barry had dropped his guard, obviously – he'd noticed the looks that the bully had been giving him since Psychology on Monday, after all, and it gave him a sort of nervous twinge in his stomach, because whatever he was planning, it was going to be bad. All that Barry could do, really, was be prepared for the worst.

Which is why when Oliver suggested that they actually went back to his house on the Thursday evening to actually train like he'd promised, he pretty much jumped at the chance.

He hadn't really planned on Oliver backing him up against the wall once they were both stripped of their shirts and attacking his neck like a vampire, though, before they'd even started, puckering his skin ever so slightly and leaving bruising marks.

“Crap, fuck... Oliver, stop.” Barry gasped, grasping onto his upper arms, the rush of blood travelling down south wanting the other boy to do anything _but_ stop. Oliver stilled under his hands, drawing back and looking at him with worried eyes.

“I-- did I hurt you? Shit, Barry, I'm so--”

“No!” Barry exclaimed, pressing a soft kiss to Oliver's lips. Somehow, despite the sheer amount of making out that they'd been doing, it seemed more intimate than anything they'd done yet, and Oliver seemed to melt into it a little before he pulled away. “I just--” He bit his bottom lip, trying to gather his willpower. “If we do this, we won't get anything done, and I'm--”

He cut himself off before he could say that he was worried about what Snart would do to him and wanted to prepare, but Oliver seemed to read it in his expression nonetheless, because he pressed his forehead gently against Barry's with a soft sigh. “Yeah, just... give me a minute? I need to, uhm...” He glanced down to where their hips pressed together, and Barry felt a flush creep up the back of his neck.

“Y-yeah,” he stuttered, letting out a shaky breath as Oliver took a step back, putting a little distance between them so that they could both cool down.

Okay, yeah. This new aspect to their relationship, whatever it was, was certainly going to make getting stuff done _way_ more difficult.

 


	10. Buffer Effect of Social Support

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm so sorry – I know that updates have slowed down considerably. I'd like to say that I'll try to speed them up, but in all honesty, I'm back at uni, so they probably will be monthly from now on. 
> 
> Psychology Lesson #10
> 
> Buffer Effect of Social Support occurs when the support of others make an individual feel better in or after stressful situations. Nucholls, Callell and Kaplin (1972) looked into this when studying the effects that social support had on pregnant women. Results indicated that social support did in fact play a role – with 91% of women in stressful situations and low social support suffering complications throughout their pregnancies, in comparison to 33% who were also in stressful situations, but had more support, whether it be partners, friends or family.

On the morning of the tournament, Oliver's stomach felt like it was tied in knots.

He wasn't ready at _all_. He'd allowed himself to get distracted.

Beyond the studying with Barry, there was also the training, and, well- Barry with his shirt off, and the making out, and, _shit_. Even just thinking about it was making him go weak at the knees. Still, Barry had held up pretty well during his first session. There was a bit of struggling, and he definitely wasn't ready for some of the heavier tasks, but Oliver had still been pretty impressed, in-between trying not to stare too much and resisting the temptation to press Barry against the wall and map out his skin with his fingers and lips again.

And _damnit_ , Barry wasn't even here and he was distracting him from the task at hand.

His mother stood beside him, watching him carefully, and Oliver let out a slow, unsteady breath as he skimmed his eyes over the grounds. They were still setting up, and Oliver knew that he had a while before his name would be called even after the competition started. They usually went by alphabetical order by surname.

Still, no amount of delay would ready him for this.

 

***

 

 **Oliver [Sent 07:30]:  
** I'm nervous as shit.

 **Barry [Recieved 07:32]:  
** Are you.. did you just bring up feelings? Are you trying to talk feelings right now?

 **Oliver [Sent 07:36]:  
** Barry.

 **Barry [Recieved 07:37]:  
** Right. Sorry. Kidding.

 **Barry [Recieved 07:39]:  
** Seriously though, being nervous is a good thing. It can help you to focus.

 **Oliver [Sent 07:42]:  
** Not when my hands are shaking so badly that I can barely grip onto my bow.

 **Barry [Recieved 07:45]:  
** If it helps any, I wish I could be there.

Oliver frowned down at his phone, trying to consider his next words carefully. They were getting into dangerous territory here – _feelings_ territory. Which, no. They weren't even dating. They were... well, he didn't know exactly what they were. Honestly, he was a little afraid to ask. He just wasn't sure what he wanted the answer to be.

What he wanted to type was _I wish you were here, too_ – but he was clearly too chicken shit to do it. Thankfully, Barry saved him from having to answer as his phone vibrated in his palm, and another message appeared on his screen.

 **Barry [Recieved 07:47]:  
** What are you doing after the competition?

He was going to ask Tommy if he wanted to hang out, in all honesty – but then Laurel had texted and said she was coming to cheer them on, and, well – he knew that Tommy would probably put all his efforts into attempting to spend some time with her.

Tommy and Laurel were... complicated, to say the least. They were dating before the summer, but neither of them were really ready to commit to anything fully. So when Laurel moved away to college, they broke it off. In all honesty, Tommy had never let on that he was particularly bothered, but Oliver knew better. He could tell when his friend was truly happy, and when it was simply a mask.

So, yeah. Long story short – he was pretty sure that Tommy had his heart set on other plans. He glanced over to his friend, who seemed to be in deep conversation with his father – and, in all honesty, Tommy was looking a little distressed. Then again, that was pretty much his permanent expression when dealing with his father.

He could feel his mother's eyes heavily on him, and he pocketed his phone – absolutely _not_ delaying his reply to Barry.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

Oliver flinched, tightening the grip on his phone, before turning to meet his mother's eyes. “I'm-- well, I'm okay. Nervous. But I'm-- I'll be fine.”

His mother nodded, before glancing at her wristwatch. “It's nearly time to start. I'm going to go find Walter and Thea. We'll be at our spot on the stands.”

Their spot, Oliver knew, was front and centre. His mother wouldn't settle for anything less. As he watched her retreat, his stomach swooped again, and he attempted to swallow the lump in his throat. Seriously, he really needed to calm down. He wasn't going to be able to keep his hands steady like this.

Even the thought of disappointing his mother – his family. _God_. It was too much to handle. He needed this win. Needed to show his mother that he was worthy of her love. That he wasn't a complete fuckup, after all.

Barry's words returned to him in that moment - _how can you grow if someone is always tending you so that you fit what they want you to be, rather than who you truly are?_

He pushed the words to the back of his mind abruptly, along with a multitude of other thoughts revolving around Barry Allen.

 

 

***

 

 

It felt like the first round was never going to end.

The set up was simple. A row of targets sat on the field, and the competitors would be called out in groups by alphabetical order to take their shots.

It was mostly a swarm of unfamiliar faces, but among them were a few familiar ones – namely Tommy, Helena, Nyssa, and-

He paused, narrowing his eyes at where Thea stood, giggling and twirling her hair next to a young boy that Oliver didn't recognise. Must be a first time competitor. He looked around Thea's age – blond hair, blue eyes, red hoodie, chiselled jaw, and- exactly how close did this kid need to stand to his younger sister? Why the hell wasn't Thea in the stands with their mother, anyway?

And then Oliver felt his blood run cold as Thea leaned in to press a soft kiss to the boy's cheek, both of them flushing a bright red immediately afterwards, matching sappy grins on their faces.

It was taking all of Oliver's willpower not to march over there and drag them apart. It seemed innocent enough, really – but Oliver couldn't wipe the scowl off his expression, none-the-less. Still, Thea ducked her head, shot the boy a shy smile, before running to join their mother in the stands.

He briefly considered marching straight over to interrogate the unsuspecting kid, who was glancing down at his own bow, still smiling – but as the next bout of names were announced, the kid was called onto the field.

_Roy Harper._

Oliver briefly remembered teasing his sister about her crush on the boy, and he regretted it now – felt like he'd encouraged the entire thing.

Still, he had to admit. The kid had some talent. His grip was a little off, and his movements a little too jerky sometimes, but he certainly had potential. There was no way he was winning, of course – Nyssa was currently in the lead, and Oliver had marked her down as his main competition. Given some practice, and maybe a few lessons, though? Roy might become a threat for next year. He'd have to watch out for that.

When it was Oliver's turn to step up to the plate, he let the rest of the world fall away. He narrowed his focus on the target and nothing else, raising his bow carefully before taking his shot.

 

***

 

Second place.

That was how it had ended up – Nyssa at the top of the table, having beaten Oliver by a mere two points. Even from across the field, he could hear Sara shrieking her congratulations as she enveloped her girlfriend in a congratulatory hug before brushing their lips together.

He was furious with himself – but his own rage was nothing to the look of disappointment in his mothers eyes as she and Thea approached him from the stands.

“Well done, Ollie!” Thea squealed, throwing her arms around him, and Oliver relaxed a little at his sister's enthusiasm. At least he wasn't a failure in _her_ books. Yet.

“What happened?” Moira asked, the tone of disappointment clear in her voice.

“I- I don't know,” Oliver told her truthfully, ducking his head with shame. “I'm sorry. I didn't- I guess I just didn't practice enough.”

His mother sighed, running her hands over her face, before fixing Oliver with a frown. “There's nothing that can be done about it, I suppose.”

At that, Thea scowled at their mother. “Mom, he got second place. Don't you think you should congratulate him, rather than make him feel like he failed?”

Moira lowered her gaze at his younger sibling. “I don't expect you to understand, sweetheart,” and then, raising her eyes to meet Oliver's again. “I'm not mad, Oliver, I just- I know that you could have done better than this.”

She was right – of _course_ she was right. The feeling of sinking disappointment settled in his chest, and Oliver let out a slow, unsteady breath. “I know. I'm- I'm sorry.”

His mother nodded, but didn't reply, and all of a sudden, Oliver felt like he was losing the ability to breathe. He couldn't stay here – not with the looks that his mother was sending him, nor the display of hostility on Thea's face directed towards her. Panic rose in his chest, and suddenly, he was whirling around, feet carrying him across the grounds in long strides, ignoring the sound of Thea's voice attempting to call him back.

He wasn't sure where he was going – he just knew that he couldn't stand being around his family right now.

 

***

 

He wished he could be more like Barry. Barry, who went through shit every day in school for who he was – a social outcast. Who got bullied, beaten and humiliated on a day-to-day basis, and always managed to pick himself back up again, even when he came out the other end of it with cuts and bruises.

And then there was Oliver. Taken completely apart by a few harsh truths from his mother.

It was his own fault, really. He should have been better. He should have practised more. He had allowed himself to get distracted – not just by Barry, but by school, friends – life in general.

He knew that he should put an end to this thing with Barry. It was dangerous – toxic. It was going to tear down his reputation – put an end to his mother's campaign, and one way or another, either one or both of them were going to get hurt. Oliver was willing to bet on the latter.

But Oliver just- well, he'd kind of gotten to the stage where he was beginning to realise that he _needed_ Barry, to the point where he's wasn't quite sure how he ever managed to navigate life without him – and that was terrifying in itself. But what was worse was that it just seemed to be growing by the day, and Oliver was helpless to stop it – wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to, at this point.

He didn't even realise that his feet were carrying him in the direction of Barry's house, in all honesty, until he found himself standing right in front of his door, hand raised to reach the doorbell.

 

 

***

 

It had been four hours since he'd texted Oliver. Four long hours of internally berating himself, because he'd failed to play it cool. Of course, Oliver hadn't texted him back with an answer – was probably too busy out celebrating with his friends or something, but all Barry could do was sit and wonder if he'd fucked things up out of his eagerness to see him.

He'd just been glancing at his phone for what he was sure was the millionth time when the doorbell rang, shaking him from his thoughts. His book snapped shut in his hands – he wasn't really paying attention to it anyway, couldn't concentrate – and was shoved to the side, before Barry was shuffling off the bed and pulling on the first t-shirt he could find. It just so happened to be a Darth Vader t-shirt that was far too big for him, and had a couple of rips all over, but it didn't matter. Whoever was at the door could judge all they wanted – the mood he was in, he couldn't really care less.

Or at least, that's what he thought until he wrapped his fingers around the door handle and swung it open to reveal Oliver standing on the other side.

Any embarrassment about his shirt, though, or happiness that Barry might have felt upon seeing his face after worrying all morning was knocked away immediately by Oliver's expression. It was masked – but Barry could still see the hurt written all over it. Not to mention, his posture was slumped, and his fists were clenched at his sides.

“Can I come in?” Oliver asked with a crack in his voice.

“O-of course!” Barry replied, opening the door further, motioning his head for the other to slink inside.

 

***

 

They found themselves lying on Barry's bed, facing one another, and Oliver just looked so broken. All Barry wanted to do was to move closer – draw him into his arms, but he wasn't quite sure if that would be crossing the boundaries of their... their _thing_.

“I lost,” Oliver said after a while of silence.

Barry blinked, reaching out to skim his hand over Oliver's cheek, caressing his cheekbone with his thumb softly. He didn't quite know what to say. Oliver had been fantastic the one time that Barry had watched him practice – how could he have lost?

He doesn't ask, though. Doesn't want to bring the other boy down any more than he already is. “It's okay,” he tells him instead.

Oliver's face hardened, and his lips dipped into a frown. “No. It's not. My mother- she needed me to win. To get first place. And I didn't. You don't understand, Barry. I've fucked everything up for her.”

“I- wait. First place? Where did you come in?”

At that, Oliver bit down on his bottom lip, nervous eyes skimming over Barry's face. “Second.”

A flare of rage worked its way through Barry's veins – not at Oliver, obviously. At Moira. At the woman who let her son believe that coming in second place was a loss. At the woman who set unfair expectations on her son, and made him feel like shit for something that was actually an impressive achievement.

“Oliver,” Barry sighed, shuffling closer despite his insecurities surrounding their boundaries. Oliver froze a little at the contact, but he didn't try to move away. His expression was still guarded, but Barry could tell that he was beginning to thaw ever so slightly. Barry pressed a soft kiss to his lips, lacing their fingers together with his hand. “You didn't lose. Second place is amazing. I'm so, so proud of you.”

“I- it just... It feels like a loss. She's right. I should have practised harder. I could have done better. And now her campaign is in ruins, all because of me.”

“Shh, just relax,” Barry said, stroking a soothing hand through his hair, pressing an extended kiss to his forehead before wrapping Oliver in his arms. Oliver sighed, allowing himself to relax into the touch, his nose pressed firmly against Barry's chest. “Listen to me, Oliver. _Please_. Out of all the people in that competition, you came second place. One person beat you – _one_. You did amazing, and you should be proud of yourself.”

He avoided talking about Moira – didn't want to share his opinion with Oliver on that matter, if he was being completely honest. The woman was clearly smothering him – trying to shape him into something that he just _wasn't_. Trying to make him this all-perfect being that didn't exist. To make Oliver believe that coming anything less than first was just cruel.

And the worst thing was, Barry knew that Moira didn't even believe it to be cruel. She believed it to be _love_ – always pushing her children to do better. Through what Barry's seen of their family interactions, though, she seemed to have a much tighter grip on Oliver than she did Thea – and that was something, at least.

Oliver didn't reply, just let out a sigh against Barry's chest, and Barry continued to card through his hair, closing his eyes and letting the other man's warmth seep into him.

Barry had never had a boyfriend. He'd never even had anything close to a boyfriend, before – so it surprised him just how easy they'd slipped into this routine – the making out, the texting, and now, apparently, the seeking and providing of comfort. Especially seeing as Oliver didn't seem like the type to give away his feelings and affections easily. Barry felt a sense of pride, of sorts, that he was the one that Oliver had sought out in his moment of need.

They lay like that for a while – nothing but the sound of their breathing and the ticking clock on Barry's wall filling the room. It should have been awkward – and with anyone else, Barry was pretty sure it would have been – but for some reason, they just seemed to fit together, to understand one another, even when nothing was being said.

It was probably for this reason that Barry leaned down to place an affectionate kiss on Oliver's lips, which was immediately deepened by the other. Their legs slotted together as their bodies drew closer, pressed into one another, and- was it just Barry, or had the heat suddenly increased within seconds?

Oliver let out a low growl as he rolled Barry onto his back, before pressing open-mouthed kisses into his neck, and _shit_ , even the feel of it alone had Barry desperate for more. He let out a shaky breath, before a groan escaped his lips as Oliver sucked a particularly bruising mark into his pulsepoint.

This was- well, it was different. Even their makeout sessions up until now had been kept fairly chaste – or as chaste as makeout sessions could be. They'd never allowed themselves to get carried away before, always knowing when to stop before they went too far.

But now? Fuck, Barry couldn't stop himself, even if he tried, and it didn't seem like Oliver was intent on breaking them apart, either. Their breathing became a little heavier as Barry felt a hardness press into his thigh – telling him that Oliver was just as worked up as he was. He stroked his fingers along the back of Oliver's shirt, Oliver's hands framing his face as he mapped out Barry's mouth with his tongue, and-

“Barry?”

And just like that, it was like a cold bucket of ice had been thrown over them. Both boys jerked apart at the sound of the voice – their faces flushed, and their expressions twinned with embarrassment. Barry sat up, eyes averted from the figure standing in the doorway.

“I- Joe. Uhm. Welcome home?”

Joe ignored Barry's awkward greeting, and just glared at Oliver instead, who shifted uncomfortably beside him. “I, uh- I should go.”

Barry winced at the words, but knew it was probably for the best. Clearly, he was in for a long night, and this really wasn't the way that he'd wanted to introduce Joe to Oliver. Not that he'd thought about it at all, obviously. Because they weren't dating, Barry reminded himself.

Joe watched like a hawk as Oliver threw himself from the bed, awkwardly fumbling through his goodbyes whilst avoiding the gazes of the two other occupants of the room, before shooting an apologetic glance at Barry as he made his way out the door, ducking his head as he passed Joe on the way.

Barry let out a slow breath before he worked up the courage to look into Joe's eyes – and he wasn't sure if the older man was angry, or disappointed, or a mixture of both. Either way, Barry knew that he was definitely in trouble.

 


	11. Theory of Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things before I cover the psychological stuff.
> 
> 1) The rating has gone up. I originally didn't intend to go into too much detail with sexytimes... but, well... what can I say? :P
> 
> 2) This chapter is part of Olivarry Week Day 2 - Coming Out.
> 
> AND NOW THE PSYCHOLOGY!
> 
> When a person doesn't tell us directly what they are thinking, we form what is called a “Theory of Mind” or ToM. The theory that we form can be based on a number of things – for example, past behaviour, non-verbal cues, stereotypes, schemas. For example, Barry doesn't know how Oliver feels about him. All Barry knows is how he feels about Oliver. Barry can only make guesses based on past behaviour, non-verbal cues, etc. in order to judge how Oliver feels about him. This allows Barry to form a Theory of Mind. Once a ToM is formed, the individual will go on to act as though their theory is in fact true. Although Barry is pretty unsure of what Oliver is thinking right now, he will continue to act as though Oliver feels the same way as himself, unless he his proven otherwise.
> 
> Forming a ToM can be harmful when our predictions turn out to be untrue, and can lead to embarrassing situations/misunderstandings that could have been avoided otherwise.

There was a mark on the rug. A small, red mark – probably a wine stain. Something that Barry had never noticed before, despite having lived in the same place for five whole years. He found himself wondering if it was a new mark, or if it had been there since he'd arrived in the West family home all those years ago.

Not really relevant right now, he knew. But it was better than attempting to meet the eyes of his adoptive father and attempting to sort through the mess of emotions whirling in his head.

It had been five minutes, and Joe still hadn't uttered a word to him. Five whole minutes of Barry sitting on the couch while Joe paced the room, allowing Barry's mind to run through all of the worst possible situations.

Realistically, he knew that Joe wouldn't be mad about his sexuality – his adopted father was far too accepting and understanding for that to be the case, but the irrational side of his brain couldn't help but mull it over – because, what if? What if Joe was disgusted by him? What if Joe was like Moira – wanted Barry to be something that he wasn't? What if-

“You know I'm not mad about the fact that he was a guy, right?”

Barry's head snapped up to meet Joe's eyes, which had, thankfully, softened considerably. The older man sunk down onto the armchair across from him, resting his arms on his knees and clasping his palms in the middle, watching Barry with a serious expression.

Barry bit his bottom lip, before saying, “I- I know. I mean, I was still worried, but- but realistically, I know.”

Joe nodded, but his face hardened slightly. “What I don't appreciate, Barry, is coming home from work to find my kid being defiled in my absence.”

“I- we weren't- that wasn't-” Barry spluttered, eyes stretched wide and throat tight.

“That wasn't exactly what was about to happen if I hadn't walked in?”

He opened his mouth, a denial already formed on the tip of his tongue, only to snap it shut again, because – yeah. Okay. Maybe Joe had a point. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, ducking his head, a rush of warmth tingeing his cheeks.

An awkward silence filled the room; Barry shifting uncomfortably in his chair, and Joe's eyes piercing through him. Joe seemed to be considering what to say next, and Barry's eyes darted to the door longingly, because he knew – he just _knew_ what was coming.

Eventually, Joe let out a long, drawn out sigh, running his hands over his face, before fixing his gaze on Barry. “Look, Barry, this isn't any easier for me than it is for you, but I need to know. Have you ever-?”

“-no!” Barry spluttered, stopping Joe before he could complete his sentence. If his face was red before, Barry was pretty sure its colour resembled a fire truck now.

Shit, this was a conversation he never wanted to have with his adoptive father – like, ever. Or his biological father, for that matter. In fact, if the ground were to open up and swallow him whole right now, Barry would be pretty grateful.

Joe nodded, his eyes now boring into the same mark on the rug that Barry's eyes kept returning to. “Okay, good. That's- that's good.”

Barry let out a slow breath, finally moving his eyes to look at his adoptive father, but Joe didn't quite look like he was finished talking – although he _did_ look as though he was struggling to come up with the exact words to phrase what he was about to say.

“Look, Barry, I know you're at that age where you're going to want to... explore your physical needs. I just need to make sure that you're- that you know how to be... safe.”

“-oh god, Joe!” Barry cut in with a groan, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “Can we not talk about this right now?”

To his credit, Joe looked as if he wanted to do anything _but_ talk about this, but Barry knew that he was pretty determined to make sure he was being safe. Not that it mattered, since he and Oliver hadn't gotten very far.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, and then, “Joe, I- I get what you're trying to do here. And I appreciate it. But I know what I'm doing. When- if- if the time comes, I'll be safe. I promise.”

“Good,” Joe replied with a grimace. “That's good. Really didn't want to go down that road.”

The silence that followed stretched into minutes before Barry worked up the nerve to ask what he truly wanted to ask.

“So, um, you're not mad? About my- my sexuality?”

Joe's face fell into something that resembled hurt, causing a tug of guilt to Barry's chest. “How could you think that? For even a second?”

He had a point, Barry had to admit. It's not like Joe has ever shown himself to be anything less than understanding, accepting and completely supportive of his traits and quirks – it was silly to even remotely consider that his sexuality would be a big deal to him. The man sent him to _reptile camp_ , after all – purely because his twelve-year-old self had seen it advertised, and insisted that he needed to learn everything he could about reptiles. It was... an interesting phase, to say the least.

But this. This wasn't a phase. This was who he was. Joe not being able to handle that would have broke Barry. His own father – his _biological_ father – had been there for Barry as much as he could, even insisting that Barry stop worrying about him and focus on his own life instead; but Joe – Joe was his rock. Joe had been there for him every step of the way. Helped him with his grief over the loss of his parents, fed him, clothed him, raised him as his own.

He really should have had more faith in the man. Joe _deserved_ more faith.

“I'm sorry, Joe,” is what he settled on, because even if he tried, he couldn't even begin to express his gratitude for the older man. “I- deep down inside, I knew that. I just. It's... difficult.”

Joe nodded, face relaxing a little. “Does Iris know?”

Barry huffed. “Y-yeah. I- kind of told her.”

“And does she know that the guy you're dating is Oliver Queen?” Joe asked, eyebrows raised ever-so-slightly.

It was no surprise that Joe knew who Oliver was, so Barry didn't even question it. His family was pretty well known around Starling. And, of course, Joe likely had a role to play in the investigation of his father's disappearance and the recovery of his body. Of _course_ Joe knew who Oliver was.

_Dating_ , though.

Barry wasn't entirely sure if that was the right word for whatever was going on with himself and Oliver. They'd been seeing a _lot_ of each other lately, sure – and today's visit wasn't even under the guise of studying or training. Today was simply because Oliver was feeling low, and sought out Barry for comfort – and that brought a warmth to Barry's chest, because he's never been that person to anyone but Iris.

But they weren't _dating_.

Still, Barry figured it'd be best not to correct Joe on the matter. He had a feeling that it wouldn't go down too well.

“Oliver isn't... _out_ , yet,” Barry told his adoptive father, eyes fixed on his hands, clasped together on his lap. “I- I didn't want to betray his trust, and he- he hasn't really talked about his sexuality, even to me.”

Joe just nodded in understanding. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right, Bear?”

The nickname brought a smile to his face, finally giving him a sense of normalcy to the situation. Nothing had changed. A quick search of Joe's expression confirmed that the older man wasn't looking at him differently – wasn't judging him, and Barry finally allowed himself to relax.

“Yeah, Joe. I know. Thanks.”

“So.” Joe said, pushing himself up from the armchair, before glancing at Barry. “Don't know about you, but I'm starving. Pizza?”

Barry huffed, sending a grateful smile towards the older man. “Sounds great.”

All in all, the evening went pretty well. They ate, hung out, pretended to watch TV while they really just talked nonsense. No further mention had been made of Oliver, nor Barry's sexuality. Barry figured that Joe didn't want to push – or that he figured Barry would tell him about Oliver in his own time.

Which he would, if there was anything to actually _tell_. 

The reality of the matter was that they were either too busy studying, training, or making out to talk about their feelings. And, Barry had to admit, there had been avoidance of that particular conversation on both sides. He had no idea _what_ Oliver was feeling – god, he barely knew what _he_ was feeling half the time.

But, god. He liked Oliver. A lot. More than he should. It only seemed to grow by the day, and it was really starting to become concerning.

So, when his phone vibrated in his pocket, signalling a call, Barry's heart skipped a beat when he saw Oliver's name come up on the screen.

“Go. Answer it. I'll be here.”

Barry nodded, sending Joe a small wave as he scrambled to his feet in favour of making his way to his bedroom to talk in private. If he happened to trip on his way up the stairs, no one need know but himself. Well, himself and Joe – who huffed in amusement at the _thump_ , but kept his eyes fixed on his book.

 

***

 

“How did it go?”

Barry shuffled on his mattress, clearing his throat. “It went... okay?”

“He's not mad?”

Barry shrugged, even though he knew Oliver couldn't see him. “I- he's not mad about _that_. More kind of... mad about, uh...” He swallowed, gathering his nerve. “About what we were _doing_. Or. About to do.”

Barry could practically hear the smirk on Oliver's face at his awkwardness. “We _were_ kind of going somewhere, huh? Kind of wish he hadn't interrupted.”

“I-” Barry choked, eyes widening. “Y-yeah. I- we were.”

Oliver's low chuckle rung out through the receiver, and Barry bit down on his bottom lip. When Joe had interrupted earlier, it had kind of spoiled the mood, but now with Oliver talking about it again – _god_ , it was doing things to him.

There was a drawn out silence, before Oliver cleared his throat awkwardly. “I- did you want it... to go that far? Have you-”

“I- no.” Barry answered, interrupting with urgency. And then, realising that he might have given Oliver the wrong idea, “No, I haven't. But I wanted to. W-with you.”

Honestly, this was the most they'd talked about it since they started, and Barry wondered if now was maybe the best time to ask for clarification of their relationship, but he wasn't sure how much he could concentrate on such a vital conversation with the way he was feeling – his pants were tightening around his groin again, and his entire body was aching with desire for the other boy.

He heard Oliver let out a shaky breath on the other side of the line, indicating that the feeling might not be entirely one-sided.

“There's so much I want to do to you, Barry,” Oliver told him, voice sounding a little hoarse. Barry swallowed thickly, his erection straining now – desperate to be touched. “I want to touch you. To feel you against me. You just... you drive me crazy.”

Barry wasn't sure if it was the haze of the mutual lust or the fact that they couldn't see one another face to face that was allowing Oliver to speak so freely, but he wasn't about to complain, either. At least this way he knew that Oliver did want him in _some_ capacity – that it wasn't just because he was there at the time.

“Touch yourself for me.”

The words jolted him out of his thoughts, and he let out a soft whimper, his dick twitching with interest.

Shit, _were they really about to do this?_ His eyes flickered to the door, and he worried briefly about getting caught. Though, it's not like this was the first time he'd masturbated in the privacy of his own bed. Plus, he'd like to think that Joe had learned a thing or two about knocking throughout the course of the evening.

Taking a deep breath, he let his hand slip below his waistband, whimpering a little as he wrapped it around his cock.

“Oliver, _fuck_ ,” Barry groaned, already feeling like he was about to combust from the heat of his hand alone. There was just something about knowing that someone was on the other end of the line – someone that knew exactly what his hand was doing – that just made it so much more than what he'd usually experience when he did this himself.

“Okay,” Oliver replied, voice thick with want. “Okay, now I want you to stroke yourself. Think of me. Think of me doing that to you, Barry.”

Barry's eyelashes fluttered shut as he rolled his head back on the pillow, doing exactly as Oliver had instructed. He couldn't help but imagine a stronger, more calloused hand wrapped around him, and Oliver towering over him, sucking marks into his neck, groaning his name into his skin, and _oh, god_.

“Tell me how it feels,” Oliver said, and Barry choked back a sob as he tried to gather himself, so that he could answer the other boy without messing up his words.

“It- it f-feels good,” Barry panted, stroking slowly, trying to hold off as long as possible. He could hear Oliver's breaths coming in short pants through the receiver – and _shit, he's touching himself too, isn't he?_

He found himself rocking into the heat, panting and gasping as he worked his hand steadily, the noises from Oliver doing way more things to him than they should. Oliver was much quieter than Barry – and, if Barry hadn't been paying much attention, he'd have wondered if the other was even touching himself at all. But, no. It was all in the way that Oliver hummed quietly, inhaled sharply and exhaled shakily. Not to mention the way in which his voice trembled a little as he talked Barry through it.

And, shit, he was getting closer and closer just thinking about it. He wasn't going to last long _at all_.

“Do you know what you do to me, Barry? I've been thinking about this for a long time. Fuck, you have no ide-” Oliver cut himself off by inhaling sharply, and Barry whimpered, tightening his grip on his own length, stroking faster and faster until he heard Oliver let out a low groan, making Barry tense up, choking back a sob as he spilled his release all over his stomach.

It took a few minutes for the fog in his head to clear. His entire body was still tingling, limbs loose and heavy, and Oliver seemed to need the same amount time to gather himself. He swallowed, biting down nervously on his bottom lip, waiting to see if Oliver would say anything.

“Well, that was...” Oliver began, but he seemed to struggle a little for an ending to his sentence.

“Unexpected. Yes.” Barry cut in, voice still a little shaky. “I- was that... okay?”

It wasn't like Barry played any part in Oliver's own orgasm. Fuck, he barely said anything at all, while Oliver did all the talking. He definitely needed to up his game if this was going to become something that they did now. If Oliver would even _want_ to after this.

Oliver just huffed a laugh though. “Yeah, Barry. It was more than okay.”

Barry closed his eyes, a smile creeping on his lips. “Good. That's... that's good.”

They didn't talk for much longer than that. It wasn't... awkward exactly, but both of them were pretty tired out, and in all honesty, they really needed to clean themselves up. Still, as he bid Oliver farewell, he couldn't help but wonder in nervous anticipation as to what the events of the phone call would mean for their relationship.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me [here](http://smittenvigilantes.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


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